Thrice

Faith is not something that I grasp, it's something that I fake, as I'm slipping, as I'm falling through the cracks. Faith, without actions is a mask, for making the same mistakes, as I'm slipping, as I'm falling through the cracks. But somehow I find beauty in our failings. Somehow I find meaning in our lies. Somehow I’m made perfect in this fracture. Your back is begging sweetly for my knives. I’m spilling blood, glancing down to hide my face. I walk with eyes closed tight, through monuments of grace. My faith is a front, I’m spilling blood. Isn’t it sweet how I’m trusted with angels, and how quickly I break my promises? Isn’t it sweet?