Sui generis.

For sure, the question is what's pure.

Untainted? Untouched? Demure?

Does one bathe in bath salts tinged with gold?

Or refrain in the cloister of the fold?

Deny one's passions for divine approval?

Object, refute to deem perusal?

Purity is honest, the unscathed truth,

The blemished and shameful,

The frivolities of youth.

The swathe of the hateful,

A community of whines,

A lathe of grime,

All the time.

To bask in the glow of critical eyes,

To relive the fire of former thighs,

To connect the past with future why's,

To distract them all with present lives.

What's pure, to be sure, is nothing more,

Than the name you're fighting for,

The soul only you know so well,

Your horrible heaven, your perfect hell.