The Fantasist 4

While kissing Karissa
He was dreaming of Dreena

Sin

I touch the dirt between the cracks
That beats the constant scrub.
Dust settles on the cleanest wax,
Despite the ragged rub.

Grease gets under my fingernails,
Filth fills my open pores;
The grime of all these wasted years,
Washed scarce by salty tears.

And when I think beneath the skin,
Pierce the hard heart within,
I know the muck's not paper thin;
I lose, I never win.

So what can clean? How will I wash
The grained in grime of sin?
My only hope, my saving plea
Is Jesus' blood of God.