Sacrosanct Fabrication

At the peak of midnight's hour I kneel quietly by my nightstand With catastrophe caressing every inch Of the delicate fabric comprising my skin The mere thought of inviting A fictitious laughing stock To cast a sea of conviction upon me Awakens the passionate hatred That nests within my bones As a detouring agnostic, My views and opinions Are often branded as hell-worthy Often characterized as the grim reaper Of a blatantly corrupt society However the icy, cold truth That creeps across my flesh May cause others to shriek with fear Come what may I say For the truth shall rise In the absence of logic © 2011 (All rights reserved)