Quick fix

Under the watchful eye of stain glass windows, the images encasing me, I still feel no remorse, my sins are judged with out the need for crucifixion, that raw moral fear sees to that. Leaves me to float in shallow puddles of guilt. Myself the executioner, allowed to act without the courts permission, my axe as sharp as diamonds, casting away doubts. To this I fear sin, not to the dream land promised to the docile few, their ears and eyes sponges for a quick fix solution, myself and all around, the readers of my mind and hands keep my footsteps in single file, my balanced always watched by the correct few: The only ones I pray to.