But though one may not show,
one can always tell,
that this is the place where demons dwell.
This is their home of fear and strife,
their flagellations cut like a knife,
And hollowed out the shell may be,
the eyes now blind,
the listless seed,
a pulse is still found in the dirt
and though thou with death doth flirt,
the pulse is slender, quick and sweet,
and do the voices all still speak
of darker days and brighter nights
desecrating nature's own delights
for the sake of saving?
I think not.
For though one has gone,
one has not begot
the key to it all,
the hope, the peace,
that brings even the noblest men
to their knees.
And in silence they all pray
that swiftly, swiftly come the day
that judgement walks mongst mortal men
to clear us all of all our sin.

© 2011