Two sticks of bones
Laid with meat and muscles over
Cradling a devil in its fold.

The devil rises with heat
Satiated when pain is inflicted
Upon the weak.

In the midst of life
And blood and the hidden
There is an abode, a heaven.

Their chest and thighs pour
Their soul and lust
There is pleasure, there is pain.

But not all pain is pleasure.
Ask the skirts with melting limbs
Played with by the stick owners.

They violate, they tresspass
Tear them limb to limb apart
Blood is a colour they own but despise.

Parted are the weak barks
Exposed is their bottled bodies,
Their insides poisoned with sap.

Their mouths tore
To steal laughter
But what escapes are scream.

The devil in the folds
Rears its ugly head
And burnt is the heaven.

Life giving land is made to bleed
And the pillars of faith are shook
Hands to caress, strangle the own.

They are the weak
In a world of lust
They fear the devil and hate themselves.

Not all who bleed
Wish they did,
Watch those covered little girls

They have been once uncovered.