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





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