The Offense

To be the offender,

Is to admit to larceny.

To admit to the collection of works read upon thee.

To smile at smitten words,

Curse at things that would

Would make you think you knew better words,

Better ways to deceive those of higher power,

and become the purveyor of tall tales while being treated as if you were committing the offense of being an adulterer.

It is no matter.

It is of no consequence.

Men and women of greater 'faiths' have written whole novels into a single black bound collection,

Glittered it with golds like it was the most perfect work.

But it is no perfection.

For who are we, but retellers of faith.

Err.

Fate.

Of the gatekeepers we swallow whole keys of, to lock off ways in which someone might take,

take a gander at what trusses were once built,

at the way archways rose high from stone Earth.

But we are not here to speak over the conjecture of the perfection of architecture. No.

We are here to speak on the written word,

The transformative thought,

And the addiction in which we might dream to be a grand stander of script.

Of the newest perception of works,

Like no other rift.

But you can strum your guitar any which way you desire,

To the right ears, you might be sound like you're thought provoking,

To others, it might bring on ire.

For we are the fairfolk,

The writers of unlived times.

It's an addiction,

I just can't surmise,

Where it begins or where it ends.

Pain.

Love.

It all starts just as it comes to an end.

And we will sing to it,

Dance to it.

Worship it all the same.

The addiction is living,

We just like to make it seem a little more sane.