Virgin to life, whore of the underworld.
Donned once with beauty,
Consumed now by carnality;
Deplete me of that which me makes human.
May your hand reach to my soul;
Poise it and torment it,
Lash it with the whip of your antipathy.
May the tendrils of anger reach deep to my mind,
Suffocate it with taint.
May it feel your wrath,
And your corruption;
So it may never forget the voice of beauty’s sorrow.
The harrowing screams of death, a procreation of hell.
Our minds act as a cauldron for blood to boil,
Our tainted morals flow through our decrepit veins.
Dying is not nearly as painful as when you see it
before you.
The Man of God is drunken without wine
The Man of God is sated without meat
The Man of God is rapturous, amazed
The Man of God has neither food nor sleep
The Man of God is a king beneath a humble cloak
The Man of God is a treasure in a ruin
The Man of God in not of wind and earth
The Man of God is not of fire and water
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