The Blood of Old

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.