Nachash

Fragility transmuted into venom
Served in a goblet I crafted by hand
Slithering from my tree, allurement by demand
The curse of freedom, an autoimmune disease

Deceived by guilt, I cannot discern
Morality and free will become relative terms

Weak, enslaved and contrite
How can I be saved here?
Where the mud shone so bright

Purifies me
Purifies me

Stuck in a downward spiral
Where even angels dare not descend
Changing my skin, an extension of sins
Cursed to harvest the fruit myself

Deceived by guilt, I cannot discern
Morality and free will become relative terms

Weak, enslaved and contrite
How can I be saved here?
Where the mud shone so bright

Purify myself