All women become like their mothers
That is their tragedy
No man does, that is his
Deception is blasphemy

Pulled the trigger with militant intent
Tried so dearly to be mothers little soldier
You had the dry eyes, firm stare,
the get-up and the steady hands
Though when the click fell,
nothing but a flag came out, painted with a bang

Your heart has to bleed in it
You can't manufacture malediction
Bleeding it, lifeblood must be in it
It has to flow from your own reserve, you must believe in...

Enter our confessional
Recite sins and lechery kindled for old flames
Banished to a realm ever benthic
How many times will you beg to be forgiven from the sins of shame?

Press your soft hands into mine, confess
Open wide those glorious eyes, confess
No book, no bell, no candle, confess
No cause for excommunication dress

No cause to cry nor reason to weep
No parting ceremony
No altar, no hard place
Only thing to be discovered is the soft space between...

Rest with what ameliorates