Wretched/Divine

When all that is in accord,

Would the melody be magical?

Or perfectly mundane?

The scars across the wrist,

Madness of the white room.

Starving the pain to death,

None to you can be meaner.

Blind to one’s own colors,

How can the grass be greener?

Perfection and Acceptance don’t align.

Sing to both the colors, And the thorns on a vine,

For even heaven’s both wretched And Divine.