Something I can't tell

september, 11

You forgot how it is like to pray every night stoic and feel that someone hears,
That a higher being is going to listen in the silence of the altar of lies you built on truth,
And take you in its arms, wipe away gentle like a dove your tears
Of sadness as the world it created, how ironic, ruined a part of creation itself, who is you.

And so, the omnipotence of the creator is nothing more than a weapon
That he uses to shield himself and use in the purpose of his higher self.
But didn't the almighty created us in his image?
Why should he punish us as we are a beautiful reflection of every broken piece of himself?

And like that, the God of humankind was dead and resurected, still,
By every thought and prayers that kept him alive,
Just like some machinery keeps beating the heart of the ill
That lies unconscious as he will never wake to hear that, in his name, the one who loves him would die.

And wouldn't I just lay down, kneeling on the altar of the profanity I raised
From the ashes where I killed the god that dissobeyed in front of his creation
As i believed that such an artist like god should be able to sacrifice himself in the name of art's grave
For the thing he made from nothing, but the dirty act of procreation?

As I would give my new god the shield of what callatians protected -
Their souls with wicked tints of blood they had at the corners of their mouth
As they fed with meat and corpses like old God fed with blood
As he killed my attempt of redeeming myself from the claws of Lust.

In nomine spiritus sancti, I offer my promised place in the ninth place where opened would be Heaven's door
To the one who stole my soul and had the moon's patron as a devilish dove, as so,
Who sent me the message of damnation just ironically one year before
The disaster I layed myself in and bathed like Bathory in the blood of the virgo.