Ezra

They say our paths are paved with sin, but I know we're bound for grace.
Even in this broken paradise, we'll rise and howl like wolves of heaven's gates.
Our souls still draw us ever closer to the divine.
We bite back at fate - just like a PRAYER from God.
---



Holy men are monsters, you should know that.

Holy men are monsters, you should know that. No better than fat cats and politicians. They'll stare into the sun and starve themselves to eat the length and breadth of you. These holy men come rotting in, their eyes the only part alive with a spark of madness. Ragged and famished they scour for their next meal, your secrets and sorrows laid bare on the table.

Take this man for instance; his gaze distant and wizened, hair dishevelled in rapture, ready to haunt you forever. But he's different, or so he says. For he can see the cracks in the foundation, feel the tension as it shakes our nation. The system's broken, but we can make it better. It's so simple. He's claiming he can be the one to revolutionise, the answer to our prayers and bring new life.

He's different-- he has the good sense to be a little cynical, a little like Lucifer. But it only makes his faith stronger.

For all his words, the peace of Ezra's famished face betrays something deeper - there is something sinister in the last vestiges of holiness, be it the mad glint of his eye or the silent mirth he calls faith.