There is a first time for everything
And hardly a second time.

God is so blessed,
All times are first times.
And all times are second times,
And all times, never happened.

Oh, that I were not chained to this mortal flesh
This weak flesh that delights in the basest forms of pleasure.
Shrouding from my sight, perhaps permanently, the nobler pleasures
That seek not to destroy, to harm, to hurt
But seek to uplift, to create, to make better.

My Lust for sin is not natural
It has grown because I planted the seed.
It is strong because I watered its roots.
And now, it holds me, it binds me, to it.

It is an abomination of nature,
A plant with a mind all of its own,
That seeks to subvert my own human body.

Oh, the innocent are so precious,
For them are the pails of blood spilled,
To nourish in them the tree of virtue,
That sacred tree that seeks not control,
But only to help in supporting us humans.

And it is a sad day, indeed,
when they, in their innocence,
Do plant the seeds of their downfall,
And find it smelling sweeter than Virtue,
Find it sweeter, find it prettier.

Thus, they, in their innocence, do nourish it more.
And thus is the cycle continued
On and on,
Throughout time.

Wakened, at last, to their error,
They move to correct it,
Spilling their blood to nourish virtue in the Innocent,
Only to find,
By their innocence, Virtue's clime,
them Corrupted, Fallen.
By their own, ignorant, hands.

To grow trees in abundant earth is folly,
They topple too freely once nudged.
To grow a tree in barren wastes,
Is to grow a tree with deep, deep roots.

As it is with nature, so it is with the soul,
To grow Virtue in innocence is to grow weak virtues,
To grow Virtue in corruption is to grow deep roots.

It is a pity.

It is a folly

To abandon the corrupted.
To protect the fleeting-innocence.

It is Arrogance.