She is,
My bread Unbroken;
Left to mold.
An ever-thickening assault,
On this heart born free;
For the Blood of Old,
Is the blood that flows inside of me.
My lot.
Cast and hurled;
Forever thrown.
In the spirit worn grooves,
Beneath soul debris I found;
The means to atone,
And from sin be unbound.
So under Blood of Old I held,
Those means until they drowned.