Girls married off
To a dogma they can't stop
Decided at birth
I would tell you it hurts
That it truly is terrible
But it gave me an outlet
Made rebellion bearable

I abhor to see they way
They block us make us stay
They're pretty little vessels
But now it's too fun, I have to wrestle
The rules and regulations
The trials and tribulations
They really aren't that terrible

Mess with the horns, you get the teeth
Because she's determined to become a female preist
Tell her that it's wrong
That she disobeys God
But she'll just tap the Old Testament
Won't let her resentment
Control her when she smites you

the title is meant to be ironic
enough to draw the attention
of the easily offended and
dramatic internet users
who happen to cross this
poem.

it's ironic because 'Gay' & 'Bible'
usually come in contention;
words unfit to modify the other
a neon g-string preist is odd
but it ain't necessarily
so.

I explained this.

A sign of the times,
It's my crisis
I'll exist if I want to.

Finally I have reached my goal

I have trapped my poor old soul.

Down we go, storming the hot gates,

Of smoldering hell.

Like a beasts jaws, clinching your throat.

Into a land where God himself , looks away.

We feel the heat

And yet we charge until our hide tears.

Just to watch kin die.

To **** the coveted

Heretics all, we rot in the ground.

While our soul lives in hell.

Gwar'th, a scranny peasent boy
from Deastbhillow
Frequented the tavern to hear the local bard play
Enthralled by stories of shipwrecks, cataclysms, Corpses rising from their graves.
He begged the bard over and over.
"Please! take me on your next adventure?"
Gwar'th locked eyes with the bard
Gave him every bit of attention.
The bard always declined,
"it's too dangerous for a child." He said,
"But I'll sing you a song.
The tale of the Red Metal Lute."
~~~
The sky was black
pouring buckets.
You couldn't see but walls of rain
you couldn't hear a ****** thing.
Not even each other speak
Until A loud wail rose from the sea
shattered every window and bottle on board.
In the distance, a figure
unwaivered by the storm.
A ghostly figure,
with a red metal lute
Seemed to fly,
Loom on the rain.
the figure plucked a single string
wailing screams from years of forgotten dead
some sailors on board went mad
The woman and children ran inside.
The captain headed out the cabin.
Grabbed his lute from off the wall
Walked right up to the ghostly demon
Challenged him to a duel.
"I win, you lure me the biggest fish
inside this ghostly sea
Once we haul it back to shore,
you let my sailers leave."
The ghostly demon preached back in wail
"My spoils claim each drop of blood
left upon your ship,
you'll join all the eternal tongues
wailing from my instrument."
They played their lutes so hard that storms whipped bruised wailed and brown
Lighting struck, fire popped and squeltched under the heavy rain.
Not a soul on board could hear the music, for they all deaf from the banshees wail.
But one small float snuck cloaked in shadows from the duel above the sails.
It had a mother and a brother
a baby in the mothers arms.
They made mostly to shore.
The oceans trials took all the family, but I, the baby,
A boy.
I don't know who won, the Captain, the Demon.
But I know one thing is true.
The power that lies within' an instrument
is more then anybody knew.
~~~
One foggy night in Deastbhillow
Long after the tavern closed
The bard was packing for a 'venture
loading up the partys caravan to head out of town
Gwar'th snuck on behind the treasure chests.
It stopped in front of a cavern
Five adventurers stepped off
A knight, a priest, a bard, a Clairvoyant
And In the shadows,
Gwar'th.

Down in the belly of the cave
Past the bones and the torches
there was a red glowing from the end
THE RED METAL LUTE
Gwar'th, excited, lunged from the shadows
Alerting the party.
The knight drew his weapon
The bard struck a chord
The priest prayed
And The Clairvoyant read the boys mind.
Together They killed the boy in cold blood.

"What did it look like to you?" Said the Preist
to the knight who slaughtered the boy.
"A beautiful woman.
What did it look like to you?" The knight asked the priest.
"My god."
"What did it look like to the boy?" The bard asked.
"An instrument," said the Clairvoyant, "A powerful instrument.
What did it look like to you?"

The bard looked down.
"The boy."

aspen tress
that believes
wear their
white priest
robes
that
make us
blend
in the
snow

be ye priest of men
who hide their sins
behind their robes
still made of cloth or
be ye men of faith
yet be the silent moth
caught in their
wicked flames of
the world again but
still be ye priest of men

the preist
that we meet
stand to
their feet
to greet
the Sunday
church goers
there to
seek the
spiritual guidance
from the men of
the cloth
where the preist
draws the line
between good and evil mines
in the confession box
in their holy sanctuary

Low lifes ******* on a paper bag just to watch the colors blast away reality
I looked down on those poor hopeless ******* like a preist at the lost
The buzzing and shaking was better than the cold sharp truth of a sober life
I can't say I know what a sober life is because i'm drunk on hope
I stumbled through life waiting for better times to be handed to me
Now I face the edges of reality and sink in my chair as I drop my head
I find myself craving the warm color filled curves of any drug at all
And you humble paint huffer
I judged too hard
I couldn't see the truth with my face buried in my own paper bag
I found myself craving paint
But at least I found myself

pin ****** of
holy light
spiral down
from the
dome of heaven
upon the
altar of
holy communion and
shoulder to shouder
preist pray
towards the holy light

In the depths of their robes,
A priest resides,
With a heart full of love,
And a soul that guides.

They've seen the world,
In all its light and dark,
And yet their faith remains,
Like a beacon in the dark.

They've heard the confessions,
Of the lost and the found,
And they offer forgiveness,
For every soul that's crowned.

They celebrate the joys,
And mourn the pain,
They're always there to listen,
And to help us gain.

The priest who lives inside their robes,
Is a gift to us all,
A reminder of the good,
That will never fall.

So let us cherish them,
And their holy light,
For they are a blessing,
Both day and night.

Oh priest that stands
resolute at deaths door,
Why does thou hesitate
upon knocking I ask.

Is there a unfinished task,
or perhaps a regret.
No it's neither an unfinished
task nor a regret.

Its a sense of longing.
A longing thou say,
But of what is the question
I ask thee.

Why does thee ask at all.
Oh voice speaking through the dark.
Thyself a curious fellow.
A curious fellow indeed.

But none the less
I shall answer thys question.
I don't want to give in.
There are people that need this preist,

There are people that relie on this priest.
Sorry I only linger,
Because I can't afford to go just yet.
So wait a bit longer

I still have a survival wish,
Not quit a death wish yet.
So your not quit there yet ay,
Anoher day will do just fine.

I thank thee
For appeasing thys curiosity,
And death shall wait for thee
To come again so please do.