Cleansing is filthy work

To make pure the stained

When darkness creeps into fibers of white thread, swearing to never be rid of its place

Seeping into the cracks and crevasses

Broken seams, torn by time and tales

When ripped open that clean soul

Tossed to filth, drug through mud

Black in heart, pieces lost,

Never to be whole again

What terrible task to cleanse

What painful thought

To become that thing we were

Pure of heart, pure of soul

To cut away the stains

Find the parts lost to dark and pain

To stab and pull together those things torn apart

To remove the things imbedded in that broken bleeding mass of soul

Cleansing covers that which is true

Trying to erase the past persistence of pain

Should it be cleansed?

Ripped all the more to make anew?

Patch the holes and make whole the soul

No

What peices lost will never be

Hollowed holes ripped from me

White innocence turned back to see