A poem never meant to meet its instigator
A word lost in the very power of speech
Diverging from what we like to call Creator
I let my thoughts bleed and beseech

My spirit,a reflection,weaker than ever
a soul that constructs its own altar to burn
And as I put trust on my final endeavour
I prayed once more for Belphegor's return

For I was satisfied once in my ignorance
I hadn't known my wings were of wax
My exposure was soon followed by decadence
And gently my wings melted from facts

I wished long for destruction and anguish
But when plague came on my Stranger's way,
I felt empty like I'd never been selfish
Enough to flee from my judgment day

By my own mind I am declared outcast
For my heinousness it's late to repent
Only sailing accross the oceans of past
Keeps me alive in the mire of present