"
Didn’t you know,
The sun does not shine
Upon the crater of your lie?
So shout — call yourself fine,
And feel the light.
Blame yourself
For the lives lost in God’s grace.
Embrace the hail of rain,
Weeping from their tombs’ embrace.
Why do we pray,
If faith is bartered for pain?
When all the peasants’ wealth we gain
Was born from grain — and a saint’s knell.
Yet when a child’s neck greeted inferno’s scythe,
My mother knelt at the altar,
Salvaging every scrap of the eucharistic,
Licking the floor from every spill of your chalice —
A myriad of hymns and prayers,
For one wish:
To save a future sinner.
For us, my Lord,
You are now my mother’s husband,
My father.
The one who was meant to bear the love,
The concrete in the corridor
Between duty and care,
Now a widower wed in limbo.
So why have I forsaken thee?
Striking a gavel against your halo’d throne —
A son of man once devoted to heaven,
Now a pilgrim,
Wandering between hell and above,
Wondering what sights you see
At your solemn throne.
For how much I weep and mourn,
Your everlasting light is no warmer than my mother’s corpse,
No god’s embrace more lovable than my mother’s severed limbs,
No heaven’s trumpets so soothing as her ghastly wails,
No endless feast more savory than the maggots feasting on her flesh,
And no paradise more beautiful than my mother’s coffin.
For your promises, we wholeheartedly believe,
Patiently waiting,
For one day, for us to receive.
Until then I shall slumber,
Nestled between her arms,
Toying with her hair like an infant reaching for the stars,
Only to realize,
When the lullabies dimmed and ebbed,
Back to the cosmos,
Returning to stardust,
To the creator’s nursery.
Only then do I realize,
The only gift and love I had,
Now gone.
Sadness in me condensed into a blackened hole,
Roaring anguish surged like a comet,
Ready to obliterate your church,
And yet I do not blame thee.
Even if the flies buzz and tempt to desiccate your halls with blood and gore,
I shall not stab the back of the one who sculpted life,
The one who blessed me with my mother,
Whose gospels circulate within my veins.
Throughout my life, I’ve learned to be grateful.
From her love and care, I’ve felt yours.
No matter how wealthy I’ve been with sin,
Your forgiveness is richer than every man dreamed of obtaining.
For you who taught us to feel,
Now I gaze upon you with my empty eyes.
I can feel your sadness,
But cannot fathom your sorrow.
And yet I ask you once more:
Can you accept our hatred…
As forgiveness?
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 8:23 AM UTC
"
Didn’t you know,
The sun does not shine
Upon the crater of your lie?
So shout — call yourself fine,
And feel the light.
Blame yourself
For the lives lost in God’s grace.
Embrace the hail of rain,
Weeping from their tombs’ embrace.
Why do we pray,
If faith is bartered for pain?
When all the peasants’ wealth we gain
Was born from grain — and a saint’s knell.
Yet when a child’s neck greeted inferno’s scythe,
My mother knelt at the altar,
Salvaging every scrap of the eucharistic,
Licking the floor from every spill of your chalice —
A myriad of hymns and prayers,
For one wish:
To save a future sinner.
For us, my Lord,
You are now my mother’s husband,
My father.
The one who was meant to bear the love,
The concrete in the corridor
Between duty and care,
Now a widower wed in limbo.
So why have I forsaken thee?
Striking a gavel against your halo’d throne —
A son of man once devoted to heaven,
Now a pilgrim,
Wandering between hell and above,
Wondering what sights you see
At your solemn throne.
For how much I weep and mourn,
Your everlasting light is no warmer than my mother’s corpse,
No god’s embrace more lovable than my mother’s severed limbs,
No heaven’s trumpets so soothing as her ghastly wails,
No endless feast more savory than the maggots feasting on her flesh,
And no paradise more beautiful than my mother’s coffin.
For your promises, we wholeheartedly believe,
Patiently waiting,
For one day, for us to receive.
Until then I shall slumber,
Nestled between her arms,
Toying with her hair like an infant reaching for the stars,
Only to realize,
When the lullabies dimmed and ebbed,
Back to the cosmos,
Returning to stardust,
To the creator’s nursery.
Only then do I realize,
The only gift and love I had,
Now gone.
Sadness in me condensed into a blackened hole,
Roaring anguish surged like a comet,
Ready to obliterate your church,
And yet I do not blame thee.
Even if the flies buzz and tempt to desiccate your halls with blood and gore,
I shall not stab the back of the one who sculpted life,
The one who blessed me with my mother,
Whose gospels circulate within my veins.
Throughout my life, I’ve learned to be grateful.
From her love and care, I’ve felt yours.
No matter how wealthy I’ve been with sin,
Your forgiveness is richer than every man dreamed of obtaining.
For you who taught us to feel,
Now I gaze upon you with my empty eyes.
I can feel your sadness,
But cannot fathom your sorrow.
And yet I ask you once more:
Can you accept our hatred…
As forgiveness?
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
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