Oh, How exquisite it was.
The scent and sight of freshly spilled blood.
The intricate texture of the ruby rain,
Spilling a and snaking down my skin.
Like precious liquid gems.
Oh, how glorious slaughter is.
How full of life it left me.
Cloaked in Death,
With the throbs of my heart,
Far lively compared to that of the corpse.
Oh how my laughs punctuated the air.
How I rebelled in the glory of my deed.
I was made in the image of god,
And now I understood the power of death.
This is not insanity, it is purer than that.
It is not rage, it is wilder than that.
It was never about avarice or fear as well.
It was feral blood lust, the legacy of my ancestors.
As I prey on my second victim, she raises the cross.
Sigh, I wonder, as I watch her wilt away.
Why does man consider all that is above it out of God's grace?
In the field of life, one's angel is the other's devil.
And so it has been unleashed.
Upon the earth, the scrounge of heaven and hell.
Man unrestrained and warped into its vile self.