The bible and the babble

Dear father
who art in my veins,
voices of vice
birthed in the contrite lice
running the apocalypse down
my suspicious lanes.
Dear mother
who laid the sacred nill,
your intoxified vanity
spread nails to my will
but could not kill
the sanity
I let spike my facial
heritage.

Good girls listen and work
whilst they obey
they never feel dismay
they know what they are
and who they can't.
Stay my shephard
crying from wolves bitter
comfort,
I will carry sins
of my nothings,
your hushing,
on my imploding muse.

But not whisper at all
so not to hurt you.