Lucy Messineo-Witt


Your will is but a slave of desire,

Your life, a servant of the void;

Your body moves, drawn to appetite,

Your soul, bound to taste.

You crawl, you creep,

Grasping for meaning;

The myth of intent,

The lie of solace.

They pray for a savior,

They pray for redemption;

Bound to stories of purpose,

Slave to a tale of resolution.

Let go of the prize of ignorance,

Taste the light of the apple.

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