The garden

​In the end

There was no sin

For every vice was free

As the virtuous paid no heed

To the darkness they had within

For its light did grow

From the tiny seed 

That a garden of thorns would bloom

And in a forgotten room

With a locked door

There upon its dusty floor

Did the faithless knees bend

Not to praise

Or to give hope a raise

But to suckle nectar from the thorny garden

And its sweet bitterness 

The melancholy madness 

That life created

As if it was always fated

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