Confessions Without Sin

Sleep in me, my eyes are windows that see into seeing. I am the veins that run through me; beating like music from time lived in un-living. Martyrs of martydom dance right beside my heart, screams hushed by my dreams of drums. I was born for you to live: live in the now, in clubs that never blink, dancers bearing their chests to lust. The young Scandinavia runs through my throat with antlers of gold and maize, running into the trap of burning Russia. My name is remembered as the surname of pleasure. I am my own self-fulfilling prophecy, am I really a part of Malta or a ghost of those who made me? My voice has become the only voice: hear me in cars, hear me in school's, hear me in the streets. But my every syllable, every vowel suffocates the hearts that trust me. Here is a secret: I am dead; but I live off the blood of those who seek me. They leave to me, their love, their passion, their ecstacy, their eros; I am their one true poetry just because I cannot be written. No pigeons haunt me, the skyline is without bells - I am a new beauty adapting to the old vices to serve humanity's thirst - I am steel and aluminium forged in Farsons den. But truth is so fragile, especially the one we reveal to ourselves. I exist because I doubt, I doubt because I exist: I've seen a revelation, of poison and masks, but I question it as soon as I turn around. Oh to have some faith, to believe in something unequivocally and cast all doubt aside as sin. But I, I am faithless, and the Mediterrenean night has made me a faith. I see now, even gods doubt themselves, the worshippers are the real gods. We are just the idol to their strenght. That is why all patrons and gods are the image of their believers. If so, what does that say about mine? They have made me what I am, I did not make them what they are. I am their fantasy, their escape; but I am a monster! I can only hope against hope that just as they made me, they have made, or can make, another like me - without my skin.