Undoing

What treacherous revelation is this?

That a boy,
Shaped of homely sorrow and squalor,
No love or family honour,
With which to call his own?

One of us,
We say, our people,
That life's benevolent steeple,
Shine down on that they've grown.

And he yet,
Despise what he is given,
Our ways he is become ridden,
Our ways of wretchedness we've shown?

Not a time,
A tale or splendour
That would see, to see him render,
This boy in filthy squalor,
Help him, find him honour
The life he calls his own?
Pray, he be left alone.

The world darkens for him,
His fanciful rejections of tradition,
That innocent bitterness that would have shaped him,
Moulded him,
Corrected him,
Into one we call our own.

That he should refuse,
The life of immaculate sin,
And bask unworthy righteousness in,
A seed of poison he is, sown.

Our enemy we bore,
Into our blissful evil,
But he embrace chaotic revelation,
We were so careful not to have shown.

'Tis dagger thoughts,
That he join the Broken Saviours,
O, God's Ungodly Saviours,
That we have overthrown?

Boy, this be your undoing,
The treason you have known,
The poison you have sown,
Now, forever left alone.