Upon a yellowing canvas, a painting entitled Crimson Dawn,

leering faces peeping through the paint that it's been drawn 

It's red, it's dead, one cold frenzied mess
painted from the blood of the many that came to confess.

He's a priest and a disgusting liar 
worshipping not a god but the power he desires 
what's good is gone, buried in the catacombs of greed 
on grief and sins like a bloated mosquito he feeds 

give us temptation and our humanity instantly degrades 
memories, love, identity; all empty idols that fade -

shambling skeletons following us to our graves

manipulation is but a disease

unleashing the worst we strive to appease

leaving innocence a dry husk on the floor

lust draining our bodies like a leprositic *****

he's drawing pictures with stolen blood
not because he had to, but because he could
not insane, nor evil, but simply obsessed 
a Psychopath protected in the uniform that he's dressed - 

In a world that's pathetic and sin ridden

who is God, and can he ever be forgiven?