When I look deep into that empty soul:
The one that caused the god shaped hole.
I see in her eyes that it has long left,
What does she care if I left too?
Reached into my perplexion,
Which shaped and removed my complexion.
You: the god-head divine,
The in-built infection,
What does it care of me?
Or of anyone’s defection?
So go forward, wayward soul.
For no fate or ideal has control.
Of you, or I, and we.
We all are, condemned to be free.