from mouth to messiah, the words felt compressed
lungs gasping frantic and fever dream blush
the croaking of hymns crescendo in the absence
of pomp left extinct in the burrowing hush

charisma unfiltered, he's charged with a burden
of casting the rhythm away from the strut
horned-god-be-******, the spittle and curse
that left mark on the imps and ghasts in his gut

by mother and kin, the night would seep in
and by father-in-tomb he'd oppose it,
for if paradise quakes and the bricks wilt and bend,
death would not emerge lest he chose it