Self Prophecy.

Hands glide up the pants of strangers,
A Bishop's sleeve, when overturned,
Is infested with the bitume of his unholy deeds.
It's half past three, and you're on your knees
Wishing you were beautiful.
The hooks in your mouth
Leave gaping scars, the size
of pitfalls below our feet.
Dear sleeper, does it amuse you?
That I can see the underbelly
of your demonetizing nature?
You scandalize, you create, you demolish.
The gutters of your mind run dry,
They lack fruition
Of the saint you sought yourself to be.
You are an agateophobic,
Riddled thoughts, of false comfort,
An aphrodisiac to your withering sex drive,
Desire is a rarity, thus you seek destruction.
For don't all bitter hearts, bite,
and seek revenge upon themselves?
It's a quarter to six now,
And you're on your knees
           

                 Wishing you were beautiful.