My ambitions made me devour you.
Blinded by pleasure, just to seek sweet relief from you.
You're the devil in this seduction.
You're devotion wrapped in silk.
You're not Eve, not Adam,
but the hiss beneath the tree
that I willingly bit.

How can I forget your scent?
It lingers like fog after a shower spent.
Will you take me to paradise,
or burn with me in the fiery pits?
Every time you're near, the tides in me arise.
Your touch feels like damnation.
Every time I feel you, I'm further away from salvation.

Blood has never tasted this good,
tears have never made me look so good.
Will you look at me as you sing my name?
Do you even hear me pleading as I try to be sane?
Are you the chaos who will unravel what's underneath?
Tell me all your secrets while I am beneath.

You taste like blasphemy,
taking away all the holiness in me.
Your hands continue to taint me.
The way you move has been taunting me.
Being with you feels sacrilegious.
Devotion has never felt this good when I'm not even religious.


- N.V. 🥀

One after another hellbound lash,
Slashing skin with imprecated ash.
A whistling scourge of cleansed sin,
A passing veil of the harridan’s grin.

It cracks a hymn of fleshly anguish,
Enough to force the gods to languish.
Yet soothes and heals the wretched soul,
As a blaring rumble of a belfry’s toll.

The sinner thrives in ****** perdition,
His body aches with god's attrition.
Transfiguring so infernally demonic,
Emerging as a deity facinorous and chthonic.

He is ablaze in unimaginable fires,
Burning in the depths of frozen pyres.
Embedded in ice he shall live for eternity,
Drinking his torture and torment so fervently.

Shackled by chains of Tartarean depths,
Fetters of sins and of hellfire’s deaths.
In which he serves his mistress of sin,
As anathema is blazed upon his cursed skin.

"So Man created god in his own image,in the image Man,he created him,Pagan and Non-Pagan he created them"

Adam's hand wrestled and bound:
unsubmitting, defiant, in anger, rages;
The Name of the upper hand is known,
but denied, and the Son of Man blasphemed.

With the open gates of Babylon
the holy flood poured on and on
through frond-covered stone ways
on grieving Palm Sunday
and the ****** water endlessly rushed
as if turned to wine by Jesus's touch

we were his disciples but behaved like sinners
he walked on water as we took from the rich
the godless romans were quick to condemn us
thus Jesus was crucified for being a witch

they set our stakes ablaze in the night
the darkness enflamed by unholy light
covered our heads with white cotton hoods
and barefoot we stumbled through dusk-silenced woods
we could hear the flames crack like whips in the dark
as they reached for us who were blessed with death's mark.