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TS Feb 2020
Trigger warning : aggressive ****** encounters, ****, violence

Walking down an empty street in London, I‌ was drawn to a crumbling, empty church. It's as if ‘decay’ was written on the walls. A sight unseen, I‌ just had to explore. It looks as though no one has been there for years, decades, or maybe even centuries. Wooden trim adorned the boarded up windows and an altar like a hidden stage lay in the very front. Layers of dust coated the floor. Two balconies towered over either side of the altar and what was left of the chairs sat facing the front of the church. The room was almost a half circle, drawing the attention to the front altar. The ceilings seemed to rise for miles and the windows cast haunted shadows on the floor. Everything is dingy and dull in color, as if it was a forgotten coloring book page that has faded overtime. As I tiptoed across the floor, I inspected each little thing almost in search of a lost treasure.

The energy is strange, almost as if it had been frozen in a paradox of time. Everything was left as if they fled in a hurry, untouched by the passing of years. What was it about this place that I was drawn to? What community used to worship here? What happened to them that left this church in this state. I‌ wasn’t sure I would find out the answer to any of these questions until I‌ spotted a dusty old book on a table by the door. Inside was a language I‌ did not know and notes scrawled on the page margins in pencil. “Gratias agimus tibi propter Princeps tenebris, princeps infernum.” it read. Was this latin? That might make sense as many of the Christian religions’ texts derived from the latin language. Since google is a thing now and we have an infinite access to so much information, I decided to give it a go.

‘We worship thee prince of the darkness, ruler of hell.’

I don’t think this was a Christian church…

As I‌ read these words aloud, a whisper seemed to escape from the walls around me. Carefully, I continued to explore, making sure to not disturb anything. Toward the back of the room was a wall trimmed in wainscoting dusted in a faded brown stain. A large hole was torn through a space on the bottom and a faint light flickered from inside. Was I not the only one here?

Next thing I‌ knew, I‌ was on my hands and knees, crawling through this hole. Why am I not able to control myself? I‌ should have left the instant I‌ read the inscription.‌ Something tells me that someone wants me to be here. Through cobwebs and rodent dung, I‌ reached an opening and stood up. It was a room with dirt walls and floor. There was a single oil lamp lit on a desk across the room. The furniture was skewed about and a questionable, almost luminescent red powder on the floor across the room. When I‌ got closer, I‌ also noticed the shards of glass spread on the ground around the powder. I reached down to touch the powder. I‌n the blink of an eye, I‌ was across the room, wondering what had happened. Before I‌ could even form a full thought, there was movement from the hole in the wall I‌ had just climbed through. A‌ little boy appeared, no older than 8, dressed in ***** wool trousers and a half tucked in, stained linen shirt. He wore a newsboy hat on his head that had certainly seen better days. On his shoulder was a worn bag which looked to be carrying something heavy.

“Hi there. My name is Anna. Are you lost?”

He walked by me as if I‌ were a ghost.

He was looking around, almost searching for something.

“Wh-what are you looking for?”

He made his way to the desk in the corner with the oil lamp and laid his bag down on the chair. He looked under and around with a near disappointed look. What was he trying to find? His eyes suddenly widened and he darted toward a nearby bookshelf, pulling down a crystal decanter from the top shelf. It was full of that same ghastly powder I saw before!‌ I‌ turned to look at that spot on the floor, only to find it clear and no broken glass scattered. To my surprise, the decanter came hurdling across the room, right passed my head, and smashed into the wall. I‌ turn quickly to see the little boy and he was gone. I blink and again am across the room where I‌ was before. I‌ shake my head and rub my eyes. What just happened? I‌ should really get out of here - I don’t think its safe to be here.

I‌ turned to leave but caught a glimpse of the little boy’s bag on the chair. Why was this still here? Why wouldn’t he take it with him? I‌ had to see what was inside. I picked up the bag and pulled each item out; a rock-hard loaf of bread nearly mummified, a small black book on elementary mathematics, a very old key, and sort of spherical item wrapped in a brown cloth.

I‌ removed the cloth to reveal a black clouded crystal ball. As soon as my hands touched its surface, I blinked and I‌ was out in the main room of the church with at least 30 people lingering around their chairs talking. I was no longer holding the ball, and everything had a bit brighter of a color to it. The room was still dark but the windows were not boarded up. There still lie some rubble on the ground but much less than before.

“Uhm, hello? Who are you? What is happening?”

I reached out to one of the people and they said nothing - they didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Everyone was dressed in very old clothing. Corsets, bustles, and shiny leather shoes. It was as if I stepped into a chapter of a victorian era book.
Despite the demeanor of the patrons, their clothes were still a little worn, torn, *****, and drab. Everyone carried on their conversations in a reasonable tone until a bell rang - everyone found a seat.

A lanky gentleman appeared at the altar in black clothing and spoke to the crowd.

“My fellow followers of Lucifer, I‌ beseech thee to bow down in worship to our almighty prince. He hath lead us to the depths of the fire and bestowed on us the power to destroy life itself.”

Each person knelt down and faced the ground in what I‌ would assume is reverence.

“For over a thousand years, this temple has held a dark mass for our dark lord, in which we show our dedication to his unholiness in the form of a sacrifice. Who among you has brought a gift to Satan himself?”

A petite, young, beautiful woman rose and approached the altar. Her head bowed in reverence and a veil over her head, she held out her arms. The man took a small item wrapped in a brown cloth from her and set it on the altar. They continued their ritual by spreading what I imagine was blood along the edge of the altar in a circle. As the man worked, the crowd of people mumbled in unison like a prayer. I watched from the side, trying to understand why I‌ was here and why no one would speak with me.

“Ma’am, what is this place?” I‌ asked a nearby worshiper. She said nothing.
“Excuse me,” I‌ nudge a young man to her left, “what is everyone doing?” He did not even look at me.

The mass continued in latin and I‌ watched quietly in confusion.

Nearly an hour passed and the mass seemed over. The people start chatting away as they had before and the gentleman at the front makes his way to the back wall where the hole was before. The young woman stopped him and asked to speak. I follow them to the back of the church. The gentleman quietly opens a door hidden in the wall right where the hole was and they walk in. I sneak in with them as the gentleman closes the door.

“Elizabeth, I am glad you came today. I was starting to worry that your faith was wavering. You haven’t seemed yourself lately since that human left.” the gentleman addressed the young woman as she sat in the chair by the desk. Everything was neater now and the furniture was placed in a purposeful way, much like a room in a house.

“Jonathan was the love of my life, Cain. I miss him every day. I don’t wish to go on in this world any longer.” Elizabeth squawked back with tears in her eyes.

Cain goes to comfort her, sits with her, and holds her in his arms as she sobs gently. He offers her his handkerchief and she accepts gracefully.
“Darling, you have so much more to give here. Lucifer needs your fortitude and dedication. But most of all, I need you.” He says, wiping a tear from her cheek.

As she rests her head on his shoulder, I look around the room. The powder is no longer on the floor and the decanter is on the table. I turn my attention back to the couple and I‌ see him kiss her softly. She turns away,
“Cain, please…” she whimpers, “I am not ready for this yet.” Cain nods and stands up. He walks across the room to a metal bowl with a pitcher and pours a glass of water.

“You should leave, Elizabeth.” he states without making eye contact. “You have no business being here if you will continue to cohort with humans. You have been given a dark gift that you are wasting away. You have been made beautiful to be a glorious gift to our community and you have disgraced us by your unfaithfulness.”

Shocked, Elizabeth stands and walks toward him with more tears in her eyes, “Cain, you know I‌ love you. I‌ want to stay with the community, to contribute and prove my worth. Please give me a chance.” she sobs.

He takes her in his arms and calmly says, “Elizabeth, you know what you must do. You know your purpose. You are the source of intimacy in this coven. You are our only hope to offer what we have to Lucifer.”

Elizabeth sighs and softly agrees. She looks defeated, tired, sad. I just want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it will be okay. I‌ blink back tears from my eyes. As I open them, I‌ am back in the main room surrounded by people. Cain is standing at the altar beside Elizabeth who is dressed in a beautiful black lace gown and veil. Cain lifts the veil from her face and kisses her neck. Her expression unchanged, still flooded with defeat. Cain starts to unbutton her gown. What is happening? Why are all these people watching this? She doesn’t look happy… why is no one stopping this? Cain starts to aggressively remove her clothing until she is standing bare and vulnerable in front of the crowd.

“What are you doing?!” I‌ scream.
“Leave her alone!” I‌ run to the front to try and stop them but I‌ am invisible.

As Cain removes his trousers, Elizabeth stands there calmly but with deep sadness in her eyes. He motions to the altar and Elizabeth lays down. Cain climbs on top of her and starts to penetrate. He begins aggressively … well there is no other word for it besides ****. He is ****** her. Her eyes fill with tears but she blinks them back. He gains speed until he finally ******* inside her. She blankly stares at the ceiling and a single tear rolls down the side of her face, landing in her now unkempt hair.
Why? Why did this happen? What is going on? Why did no one stop this?
A man in the crowd stands up and walks to the front. When he reaches the altar, he begins to undress.

No.

Not again. There is no way. Why would they be doing this? Why is no one stopping this?!

Man after man after man violates Elizabeth while she lays silently on the stone altar. I am sobbing now. Why am I‌ powerless? Why can’t I‌ stop this? Why is this happening?

What seems like hours pass of this horror and Elizabeth finally stands up. She puts her gown back on and replaces her veil. Cain stands beside her and grabs her hand. He recites something in latin then repeats in English, “The marriage of the many.” They begin a ceremony similar to a wedding but instead of a groom, on the altar lies the decanter of powder.
The ceremony continues and I can hear Elizabeth faintly sobbing, “Jonathan…” she whispers. She blinks back her tears and looks up. She sees him standing by the door, tears off her veil and runs to him. He was not there. Men from the crowd drag her back to the altar. She is screaming, “I‌ won’t marry him! Jonathan has my heart. I‌ would rather die than give myself over to Lucifer!” Cain hits her across the face leaving a throbbing red mark.

She cradles her face from the pain as Cain yells,
“Don’t you dare disgrace us! You are the ultimate sacrifice to our king and you must obey!”

Cain drags her back to the altar and chains her down. He pulls a knife from his belt and lifts it in the air yelling, “To thee I‌ offer, oh king of hell, this sacrifice of violated innocence. Come forth and bestow your gifts upon us as we offer her to you.” I‌ lunge forward to try and stop him. Just as he is about to plunge the knife in her chest, the decanter on the altar opens and the powder bursts into the air. A loud voice bellows through the church,

“You dare disgrace this innocence. An offer of such little worth hath no result for a coven such as yours.” A strong gust of wind throws Cain against the wall. The blow kills him instantly. The crowd bursts into chaos. Elizabeth, still chained to the altar, is hysterically sobbing and trying to break free. From the cloud of wind, a man walks toward her. He is tall with dark features. He has deep black eyes and a chiseled jaw line and body. He walks to her. Elizabeth looks up and is speechless. The man crouches down to unchain her and kindly helps her up.
“They hath defiled you, oh innocence. For this they shall burn.” He speaks in a deep voice. He extends his hand and half of the crowd turns to ash. He looks into her eyes and kisses her neck.

Elizabeth looks to the ceiling with tears in her eyes and mutters, “Please don’t hurt me…”
“Why would I hurt the most purest gifts my father has given the world?” He says as he holds her face. “I have removed the human from your life to clear your path to glory. In my father’s spite, we will be betrothed tonight. You shall rule hell beside me and bear my children.”
She sobs, “You … you killed him? I loved him!”
“Girl, you know nothing of love.” He says flatly. She looks at him in surprise, tears still falling down her cheeks. Chaos is still roaring around them as the crowd tried to escape the hellfire. “These filthy creatures are not worthy of your power. You belong to me now.” She tries to break free of his grip but he is far too strong for her. He lifts her up and lays her on the altar and begins to overtake her as she cries.
I stand to the side helplessly. Sobbing with her. I close my eyes and wish it over. I‌ want to leave now. I can’t take this.
Silence. I open my eyes to the sudden stillness and there sits a pregnant Elizabeth in a dark, empty church. Tears are gently running down her face and I realize that I‌ have not yet seen her with a smile on her face. Lucifer appears to her and holds her in his arms. I can’t hear anything. They are speaking but there is no sound. He lays her down and she yells - she is in labor. A small bundle wrapped in a cloth is delivered and the dark lord holds it in his hands and looks down calmly. Elizabeth stands up behind him with anger in her eyes. She pulls a knife from her cloak and plunges it in his neck. He drops the child but Elizabeth reaches to catch it just in time. She runs to the door with the cloth in her arms and slams the door behind her. A furious Satan rips the knife from his neck and runs to the door. He slams on it with his fists and yells. I‌ still cannot hear.
I blink and see Elizabeth on the steps of a church, crying softly. She gently lays the bundle on the door step and runs away. A woman appears at the door and picks it up, cradling it in her arms.
I‌ blink and see Elizabeth back in the church, holding the decanter and stealthy creeping around the corners. She turns around and Lucifer is standing there.
“You have betrayed me. All freedoms have been stripped from you. You will no longer sit beside me and rule hell. You will be caged and retained for only reproduction. You WILL bear my children and I‌ shall take them from you, never to be seen again. This will continue until I‌ have used the last of you and then you will be destroyed.” He exclaims angrily.
Elizabeth stands straight up, holds the decanter in her hand and yells, “I‌ banish thee, Satan, to the confines of this prison. You shall never again walk the face of this earth.”‌ As she opens the lid, the dark lord plunges the knife she used on him into her chest. A gust of wind engulfs him into the decanter. Elizabeth drops to the floor. A‌ knife in her chest, she struggles to put the top on the decanter. She crawls to the wall where the door once was. She begins to peel away the pieces of the wall weakly. She works in pain for what seems like hours until she makes it into the room. She drags herself over to the bookshelf and hoists herself up. She places the decanter up as far up as she can and tries to cover it with a cloth. As she reaches, she falls. Upon hitting the ground, she fades into dust.
I‌ stood there silently, shocked. This woman. I feel like I‌ know her. She is so strong and brave. I‌ am in awe and also in tears. I‌ collapse to the ground in the dust she left behind. I‌ mourn her, her hardships, her life. She deserved so much more.
I open my eyes and I‌ see a little girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old enter the room. She looks around. I yell, “Leave!‌ This place is dangerous!‌”
Bewildered by the things around her, she wanders to the bookshelf. She looks so much like Elizabeth. Could this be? Could it be her daughter? She is holding a small bag. She sits down at the desk and opens it. Its her lunch. She begins to eat and continue looking around. She sees the light from the oil lamp gleam off the crystal decanter. Excited, she pushes the chair up against the bookcase and climbs up. On her tippy toes, she manages to reach the decanter. She sits back down and twirls it around, moving the powder from one side to the other. A small amount of powder escapes in a puff. You can hear a whisper, “Victoria…” I‌ hear. She hears it too.
“Hello? Who’s there?” she squeaks. She puts the decanter down and walks around. She turns around to return to her lunch and is greeted by Lucifer himself, though she doesn’t know this. He is weak. The remainder of his strength lies in the decanter. He can’t speak. He grabs her and yells - she screams and breaks away from his grasp. She takes off in the other direction and crawls back through the hole. She looks behind her then darts toward the door. He is standing there in front of the door. He waves his hand and the large metal door bolts shut. She stops dead in her tracks, stares at him for a moment, then takes off.
Frantically running through the church, Victoria is trying to find any means of escape. Tears in her eyes, she evades Lucifer’s grasp several times. The windows are boarded up, the doors are bolted, and it seems there is no way out. Suddenly a little gleam of light comes from above. The balcony. She starts toward the wall and begins to climb up the trim as quickly as she can. Lucifer is close behind, yelling but unable to speak words to her. She reaches for the balcony and pulls herself up.
Suddenly I‌ am outside on the balcony and Victoria is reaching for the railing. She is reaching for the light. She is reaching for me. She looks into my eyes and yells, “Help me! Please!” and extends her hand. Surprised that she can see me, I reach out to grasp her hand but before I‌ can get her, she is pulled screaming back into the church. I‌ lunge forward to pull her back but land on the floor of the back hidden room breathing heavily. I stand up and dust myself off. I am in the middle of the powder and glass that was on the floor. I grab the book I‌ found and start to run for the door. I‌ can’t get caught by him, he will **** me. A thousand things are running through my mind. I crawl through the hole and head toward the door. Something compels me to look back as I pull open the door.
There he stood.
Staring at me.
“Daughter, fear not. I will find you and we will rule together with your sister.” He says.
Daughter? Sister? Who am I?
Trigger warning : aggressive ****** encounter, ****, violence
shooshu Jan 2016
hot-blooded heart
Of poetic shadows
And gentle embers,
glowing a ghost
of alluring unholiness  
from the sanctity of sin.
Blissful Nobody Jul 2014
Lost all that there was,
No courage to build new.
Sweet Remorse!
Shadows cast do follow,
Guided by a source.
Fades away!

Being insane a cancer,
Sorrows feed on blissful memories,
Chokes the respect for life,
Death deceives laughter,
I am a doomed ******.

Sorrows imperishable bind the soul,
Graveness Despair rules my world,
Tearing Blades of animosity,
bleeds me to death,
I am a doomed ******.

Scary unholiness destructs all wisdom,
Melancholy songs strangle all smiles,
A streak of lightening burns the mast,
A single thought unsettles the mind,
I am a doomed ******.
Lauren R Aug 2016
Oh son of beginners mistake
Son of pure unclean intention
Son of mothers midnight run to bar
Son of broken swan wing
Son of brokenness
Son of lack of sunlight
Son of ***** laundry

Boy of unknowing
Boy of drinking antifreeze
Boy of missing eyed crows
Boy of missing childhood
Boy of sorrow
Boy of stitches
Boy of afraid of manhood
Boy of afraid

Young God of suicide attempts
God of lying to himself that he ever wanted to die
God of lying to himself
God of lying
God of unholiness
God of shotgun misfire
God of unkempt basements
God of homeless dogs
God of death and life all at the same time
You ain't no God. You are a poser with wings and a capital letter to begin your wretched name.  

You won't be happy when you die, you are split between so many titles and you do not know which to choose. You are no one. No one. You are absolutely no one.

(Say, do you know the route to the nearest bar? I'm going to drink myself open, flesh off bone, apathetic skeleton, closest thing to happy. I'm going to drink myself away from you, this world, myself.)
This is 2 years old now
KA May 2014
LEARNING every day
i am a mystery to myself.
endless corridors that seem to never end.
my soul burns bright, thank God,
the wretchedness of my mind does too.
human yes, the love of light and dark energy.
Divine in my unholiness.



KT May 7, 2014
Brady D Friedkin Apr 2016
Colossae
April 28, 2016

Oh Colossae, where have you gone to hide yourself from the Lord?
Colossae, why have you wandered away from the fold of God?
Have you forgotten the words of St. Paul, the man who brought you the news
Colossae, why have you departed from the ways of the Lord?
Oh Colossae, where hast thou gone?

Colossae, have you forgotten the Word which became flesh?
Have you Colossae, a city of unholiness, forgotten of the promise of newness
Oh Colossae, how quickly you have fallen into uncleanliness
From dust you came and to dust you shall return
But must you, oh Colossae, so quickly descend to the dirt of the earth?

Oh Colossae, you cut off limbs afraid of the flesh
As if less flesh could make you more holy
You believe that this gnostic theology saves you from your sins
But only God incarnate in flesh can save
Oh Colossae, forget not the Savior who made you new

Colossae, forget not the Spirit of God, the very giver of life
He descends upon you and makes you holy,
He proceeds from the Father and the Son, and is worshiped and glorified
He is not one to worship alone, or to give identity alone
For that you have been united with Christ, who proceeds from the Father

Colossae, remember not this heresy of mysticism
There is this flood of culture and thought
Oh Colossae, be not drowned by this flood
And forget not the great unity the Body is to be
Forget this heresy to which you have come to love

Oh Colossae, you worship angels and men, yet too God
But you know, oh Colossae that the Lord on High is worth the worship
For these messengers from heaven may bring the Word of the Lord
But certainly, oh Colossae, they are not the Word which became flesh
Oh Colossae, forget these ancient heresies, and raise up the Lord Jesus

Oh Colossae, you partook in the Holy Communion of His Body and Blood
And baptized in the death and resurrection
Anointed with oil like the kings of old
Engrafted into the marriage of the Lord Jesus and His bride
Oh Colossae, you are one Body, abandon it not

Oh Colossae, return to the Lord!
Come back to the land of your spiritual fathers
Where they worshipped the Lord in all goodness
Come back to this land of orthodoxy
Oh Colossae, repent of this heresy against the Lord!

Oh Colossae, how we have followed path you have trod
To forget the redemption by which we are saved
To remember not the works of the Lord, perpetrated that we might freely live
That we have forgotten to live holy lives
Oh Colossae, how we have fallen in line with you and the Church of yesterday

Too have we, this Church of the modern age, departed like you, Colossae
We have succumbed to these heresies of forgetting our Lord Jesus
Oh Colossae, we have fallen, like you, and dirtied ourselves from holiness
We have descended to the depths of the sea like the rest of the world
Too we are drowning in our sorrows and our sins and unholiness

Oh come Lord Jesus
And redeem us, like Colossae, back into Your holiness
Come Lord Jesus
And renew our troubled lives, bring us back into Your holiness
Oh come Lord Jesus
A poem written on the heresies and the rebuke of St. Paul to the church of Colossae in the letter to the Colossians
M Vogel Nov 2021

There is a love, deeply embedded  into

fear's reverence.. and what we fear most,
is the threat of annihilation..  yet,  is not
that, which is within the deep hooks  of
annihilation's looming leer, that which
is also the very seeds sown-- giving way
to the very firstfruits of Life-Anew..
within itself?

So then, is not death's very fear,  
in itself,  a conceding to the inevitability
of Love's unfolding conquer?
The condemnation-shadow, so unfairly
placed into you,  at such a tender
young age, has run amok for so many
unrestrained years  within your beautiful
spirit, and body..  is no longer
    an end-all..
    or catch-all,
But is now, but a spring-board;   albeit,
fear-driven.. into that (finally, Beautiful-one)
which brings Life.. directly out of death--
Not with the annihilation  of the very  Death..
(which gave you Magic) but through its own,
very power to draw us towards Love,
through its own, very fear (respect)  of that Love..
does not then, death.. through Love,  become upheld?

So how then can the condemnation within you, be bad
except that it be allowed to,  for life.. keep you
hidden in shadow? Is not then  Love's Light, the
very thing that creates Shadow's, shadow, therefore
exposing Shadow's nature by bringing forth,
its own shadow..  leaving the vulnerable rawness of
condemnation, exposed..
Hence, the horrendous sting of Love's truth.. yet also,
through the Faith-increasing training of experience  alone,
is the strengthening into resilience  the beautiful, war-torn
Spirit  that has become able to begin  to finally.. take in, Love.
This is where you are now at, beautiful girl. While under
condemnation's death-hold, you have hated me for so long
that the love.. mixed with fear.. became its own  natural
concession into Life, itself-- giving way to the Magical
falling-off  of the scales that have covered those beautiful
eyes of yours for so long

Bring your Death, beautiful-one. Through your Faith,  it is
established..  and then made, Complete. The giftedness, borne
from the deep, catacombs of Death's Unholy Hold, come forth
in fullness.. into fruition.. as you pass from Death, into Life--
right here.. in the land of the Living.
The Death you have known, does not fall off at the gate
as you pass through it.. but instead, through the newness
of your beautiful eye's, Life View..  Death's previous Unholiness
  becomes instantly, Holy.

I am in love with the death that is in you. From its hold,
were born every Magical gift that I love so much, in you..
and  while in your presence..  will forever
take my breath away.

Welcome to my life, Beautiful one.


https://youtu.be/b5qft-1YCpg
xox
Valerie Feb 2018
we are young gods,

daughters and sons of a generation

who gave up on love a universe ago,

but we do our best to experience it-

we sell it in bottles of pop culture and rabid obsessions;

turn it into a conglomeration that profiteers on excess,

a chaos of depression, anxiety, dark self-depreciating wit-

and become artists who lament on first-world tragedies.

we are young gods,

we scoff at religion and we bathe in unholiness,

sin is the new in, black is your best act, and we love it;

we wear our indifference like an armour,

because we fear what we'll see if we're allowed

to understand our emotions and display our vulnerability.

we are young gods,

happy ever after is a joke and true love even more so,

we inhale criticism and exhale cynicism,

because the titans before us acknowledge that the world is cruel

but we embrace it- we drape ourselves in abject and misery,

stitch and mould uncaring faces onto our flesh that gaze upon

the heartbroken jagged shards of ourselves, bleeding guts and glory

embedded all over the cement patch wood floors, amongst the whisky and wine.

we are the young gods;

a mass of degenerates with our entitlement and liberals,

a numbing, sweet hollow feeling that we substitute

for the lack of love and care that we've grown used to;

a realism that carves like a knife at tender ages and

we wear our sadness like a charm- aesthetics to be envied;

we're self-destructive, faithless, pointless,

burning in our question for the meaning of existence

and the only religion we'll ever bow down to

is ourselves.
oh well?
Chris Saitta Jul 2019
She is the typesetter’s “e”

The once-rounded uncial script,
Unbroken like the solemn vow of a monk,
His whisper, a shepherd of words under the cowl,
Murmurations of the Holy Mother to the lambswool shroud of candlelight.

His candle-flock of dreams to some hill of penitent towers, war-cowed
And broken open like faith-unfended helmets, littering the ground,
With their unspeaking tassels in babbling pagan sound of wind,
That hill too, once-rounded bare under the glittering apostles of twilight.

In the abbeywork of air, calligraphy was a cipher of souls,
He unwrested demons from an inkwell of sunsets, smothered them in blotting paper,
Freed the incarnate whole to the book of hours, nib-pointed in quills and illuminated in gold,
Line by line, in Carolingian winding sheets, he returned the misshapen to the fold,
To the carpet page of home and the warm ligatures of their waiting women.
So the shutters of the heavenly house could blow light in slanted rays to a wilderness in storm.

But he never tamed the aero-elongated, descender of Troy in a “t,”
He never knew the unholiness of the underscore or fonts as ******,
Or the world unwilling to know itself in serif robes of ancient lore.
His life was a simple rounded-out syllable of one man,
Left in the muddied, unintelligible text of faith and war.

She is the typesetter’s “e” and now belongs to any hand.
For slide video:  https://www.instagram.com/p/BzmNoRhl5_w/?igshid=n0ukp97qre18

Uncial script was predominantly used between 400-800 AD and is a majuscule script (only in capital letters)
True uncial scripts were unbroken, meaning the pen wasn’t lifted.
Carolingian script was the predominant minuscule script between 800-1200 AD and was used in the Medieval ages.
Other calligraphy terms include “blotting paper,” “carpet page,” “ligatures,” and “descenders.”
Meditations Over the George Washington Bridge
For Tyler Clementi

1.
I could hear the faintest of notes crying in the wind,
As if your fingers were still nimbly holding the bow,
Striking chords on your violin,
As my car rolled over the George Washington Bridge.
I think about how beautiful this is,
This feeling of suspension, how life is held
So taut on these wires, how simple it is to find
Weightlessness over all this water. My mind questions,

Did you second guess yourself? Did you know you
Were worthy of being held, cradled in more
Than just cool air and metal grates and wetness.
But I guess some higher being knew you better,
Than anyone did or could. Knew how those fingers could string
Harps and violins and heart strings, and you,
You were more than all of this, this wasteland
Where desires and kisses are taken for mockery,
And your love can be twisted against you
To make you feel light enough to float away into sleep.

2.
You flew that night. I could tell. Spread your arms like wings
Like a firebird descending into waves, looking to extinguish
Itself, and to take the world with it, to burn out the innate
Inhumanity of human beings. What they found floating
On those waves was a mere carcass, the shelling of your being,
You shed the unholiness of your skin off to alight yourself,
And blaze us with our ignorance.

They were too blind to see you flew that night, let yourself
Unravel into the sky, ripping through the darkness like a seraph,
Like some holy being, some light meant for a higher calling,
But I know what you did, I could see the shadow of you in the night
Gracefully floating. You, you are a testament to language spoken
And silenced, to the words stuck on tongues prying themselves
Through gritted teeth, you birthed meaning to the need for some sort of justice.

3.
You served your time well,
You messenger,
You,
You young,
Holy creature of God,
And I wonder as I pass over
Your take off spot,

How long you will string
Your notes over us
And how you would have fit
Into the Philharmonic
And looked walking up
For your degree

And how long your memory
Will haunt me
And how long your memory
Will stay a lesson learned
For us all.
THE PRISMS Jan 2015
By Arcassin , Lexi , Tara and rach


:::AB:::: Conversations with out any words,
:::AW::: Creates a blissful peace between two souls,
::::RH:::: A bond without voices to cause constraints,
:::TO::: Listening closely, Without any of they're ears.,
:::AB:::: Rivers never get too mellow or narrow,
:::AW::: More narrow then the thoughts that cause simple minds,
:::RH:::: Simple minds that quake in the presence of such a holy river,
;:::TO::: colliding together  only be ruined by the waves of salt,
::::AB:::: And as I realize , and look inside that my soul burns for a higher judgment,
:::AW:::: A Judgement that quickens ones heartbeat,
::::RH::: Pumping my blood, reiterating judgement awaits once this fragile body tires,
:::TO:::  So far apart yet so close, never finding the key too his heartbeat.
:::AB::: While I'm waiting til she finds it, I'm still fading and bleeding,
:::AW::: The key awaits in the depths of the river,  cleansed of all unholiness.
Welcome to our HP :)
Lauren A Todd Mar 2015
Step into your holy church and rinse off the nightmares that come in the dark. Partake in the communion of wild saints.
Sip the water trickling down your cheeks,
And maybe you think of biting off a bar of soap in case it will cleanse the unholiness of your insides.
Shed off those dead layers.
Step into the sanctuary of immaculate reconciliation.
Go forth into a new day.
Repeat as needed.
Francis Nov 2023
He sweats when he poops,
Not just any old ****,
A **** of glory,
A **** of a lifetime.

The kind of ****, that jacks your heart rate,
The kind of ****, that makes you breathe heavy,
A **** so intense that your bowels moan,
And generate a need to remove your shirt.

The cold, yet intense sweats of this ****,
Cramps in the lower abdomen, sharp and warm,
The sweet relief of tension, when that one big log comes out,
All hot and steamy.

Followed by a stream of liquidy brown,
He wonders how his body even operates,
The unholiness of what exits through,
That holiest of holes, next to the birth stump and boulders.

Pondering the consumption of two nights before,
He sits bare-assed on this porcelain mouth,
Ingesting every bit of solids, liquids and gasses,
That exit from his **** canal.

Clothes tossed onto the floor,
His ******* harden from the unpleasant draft,
Caused by the perspired glands,
That shiver from trauma and nightly air.
Jesus Christ, what an experience.
Victims of blinded heresy,
See not the sins it entails,
Like the ship upon the salted sea
Gliding upon the vast Ocean's entrails.
They seek to rise so gallantly
Just to fall with the Angel's last flaw,
Seething surreptitiously
Breaking their own laws.
The endless bounds of nothing
Of which we know naught of,
Mistreated are they who come calling,
And directly are taken above.
I, who am Hell, have taken the oath,
To be free of my own sin,
I accept my unholiness,
As I stare in your eyes and grin.
Bassam Dec 2009
No right to exist, I feel happy here
I don't belong, loved by everyone
Tormented forever, free to be myself
Nightmares so cold, the warmth of God
Satanic ritual, keeps me alive
Death confined, dreams of beauty
Psychotic screeches, songs of saints
And demons growling, echo in the cathedral
Of unholiness, praises to the purity
Unclean and unseen, the soft light of Heaven
The wrath of Hell, come down in the form of a Messiah
Lies and deceit, sanctity holds the glory
Vile guise of brutality, vitality cleanses our spirit
Gagging on our sins, in the Kingdom of our faith
A prison of the wraith, the harmony of meadows
Unlock this world of shadows, shines bright in the Sanctuary.
Arcassin B Jan 2015
By Arcassin , Lexi , Tara and rach


:::AB:::: Conversations with out any words,
:::AW::: Creates a blissful peace between two souls,
::::RH:::: A bond without voices to cause constraints,
:::TO::: Listening closely, Without any of they're ears.,
:::AB:::: Rivers never get too mellow or narrow,
:::AW::: More narrow then the thoughts that cause simple minds,
:::RH:::: Simple minds that quake in the presence of such a holy river,
;:::TO::: colliding together  only be ruined by the waves of salt,
::::AB:::: And as I realize , and look inside that my soul burns for a higher judgment,
:::AW:::: A Judgement that quickens ones heartbeat,
::::RH::: Pumping my blood, reiterating judgement awaits once this fragile body tires,
:::TO:::  So far apart yet so close, never finding the key too his heartbeat.
:::AB::: While I'm waiting til she finds it, I'm still fading and bleeding,
:::AW::: The key awaits in the depths of the river,  cleansed of all unholiness.
Me and my team ❤❤
Unexpected trials experienced in Life,
reveal the paths of Faith in each day;
purification of your soul by holy fire
insures useless stubble is burned away.

When giving yourself completely to Him,
the unholiness of the World can be shed;
consume God’s Word vigorously and often,
so that Biblical ideals fill your head.

Without His Godly wisdom and knowledge,
spiritual battles are normally difficult;
learn from the former lessons of others
to reduce the trauma of personal tumult.

From being able to walk through the fire,
your faith can exponentially soar higher.
.
.
.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
1 Pet 4:12-13; Prov 4:6-7

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
in ref. to the supposed "unholy" trinity -
i can only clearly identify one member,
antonym of the holy spirit (alias of
a community, rather than a person,
as stated by Žižek - in his words, should
it be different, it would be a profanity) -
if that is the case, then the variation
of holy spirit is ascribed the title zeitgeist -
or: the spirit of the times - the 20th century's
example is filled with zeitgeists -
communist, nazis, hippies, punks, goths,
beats, squares, or 21st century's militant atheists
and Jihadists, Blairites...
as is evident, the zeitgeist is short lived -
it's naive in being easily influenced - but because
of its gullibility it's also brutal in not being
influenced for worth of establishing a religion -
it's "unholiness" is precisely the reason why
it's poly-adaptable - multi-faceted - unruly -
it changes very quickly and is never rock-like -
but because of its gullibility it's also brutal in
not being influenced to the point of permanence -
the fluctuations are numerous, and democratically so,
many people can attach themselves to the "unholy
spirit" at any time they want, without knowing
they're actually part of a congregation - and as soon
as a congregation is established, the zeitgeist
implodes and disappears - the congregation breaks up -
soon overpowered by the forces of imitation -
ah - now the second person of the "unholy" trinity -
the Imitator - the flawed first entry post-zeitgeist -
never reaching the zeitgeist's potential, this tsunami
wave lasts longer than the actual zeitgeist - it's
a variation of nostalgia - not a nostalgia of thinking back
but a nostalgia of trying to revive - resuscitate -
the assortment of vanity projects; now i'm either too
hangover or just know what i have to do today
before the Royal Opera House and Verdi's Nabucco -
a peasant is heading into town, peasant better iron
his shirt and trousers and look respectably urban.
Zyborg Feb 2010
pangs of loneliness
unholiness of worship
fallen gods becoming idols
idolaters seeking redemption
crass waste of endeavor
and yet it seems like yesterday
the silence is deafening
where once stood the revered
now stands a debauched figurine
some folks visit to see the lost glory
but all that is lost cannot be stated
it is gone like a puff of smoke
it is lost in the sands of time
Collette Abatta Jan 2012
Lips parted, wet to smother
me, and
The galvanized gibbet of your stare . making myself small . knees to the floor
Swallowing my own unquiet heart the battery acid bite of ****** foreboding
I require your alms approximately once every 18.75 hours
Pitiful, fragile: a dove with two broken wings
For this, I yearn for the heavy hand of your regard
Render my flesh to the pulp of my ancient beginnings . born again
If you are willing, I am able . I pray
I will look to you . your appalling prophet . made whole in my unholiness
And I
Fling myself to flagellate my prostrate body upon the temple stairs
Each bruise after counted
My proof, bludgeoned on a tablet of tissue.
I will guild the seed of your mercy . bind it in stained glass . idol for my reliquary .
I have played Mary: both of her faces
By the Book
but only to drive away
So many to alien lands, discovered as a *****
Unable to accept my enormous blood debt—
Condemn me, the abomination: I beg
It is my calling
Shove that cross into my arms, nails and all
I will drag my carcass forward through the spitting masses
My heart, full of rapture.
January 18, 2012
Moving away from unholiness is attainable,
by modifying and monitoring your godless behavior.
Know that you’re called into fellowship with Him;
begin mirroring the traits of our blessed Savior.

For you can do all things through Christ,
who joyfully and faithfully strengthens His Children;
you have been given the necessary Biblical tools
for overcoming Life’s constant pressures of sin.

Turn away from impurity of thoughts and actions;
instead focus on Christ’s perfect righteousness;
find your identity now - in Him and His Kingdom;
remember that you’re always… called to holiness!
.
.
.
Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
1 Thes 4:7; Heb 3:1; 2 Tim 1:9; Phil 4:13;
1 Pet 1:14-16

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 3
~dedicated and gifted to Alyssa Homes Underwood,
in perpetuity
~
<>
this one, like so many others, is
for my inestimable~faithful friend
who asks, listens and never sings
out of tune,
always lending me his ears…

<>
the 7:42 am train is pulling in…
the tracks run by the soundless waters,
directly through the spaces
called my mind

<>


sun begging come out & play,
“c’mon baby, you know need warmth,”

(even if mine ain’t the kind that realizes
real dreams, the kind that exhale healing,
but come out anyway, take what you can get,
put off the pains of haunting curses, sins that cannot be erased, random emerging like jacks-in-the-box that were cranked, but just waiting for the right moment to fk you up…try putting them bastids, back in the can with  aplomb & composure but you know it’s way too late..)

Van Morrison serenades
“These are the days
(of the endless summer),”
it is a hymnal
in / of the church of blue sky,
birch  white pews, voices choral…
the caucus of birds who are crazy flitting, cawing, cracking,
making an unholiness mess unsuitable to the moment’s serenity,

the rabbits, seeing if this idiot threw out some
baby carrots (he did), Van singing of love of the one magician, who would turn my blood into wine…

the whistle blows, a one-minute-warning, train
a-leaving,  so is this poem, and the randomness herein is not a poem, but a cry of the mind,

”un cri de l’esprit,”
may it, it may resonant or fall, face~flat to the ground, the sound of the mind,
the train whistle, the symphony of mother morning nature, the quiet lapping waves,
all acknowledge their “failure to soothe,” them, relentless, will return later, on the morrow, same station, them, who
will never concede that they can be beaten,
to superimpose, a mental purity in the recesses
of where the screams crawl out of the mind’s
cemetery, them unmarked graves, of babies that
did not survive to be named, and yes, that’s a
real thing…shhhhhh, them say the triumvirate of the natural forces state with equanimity
”write, let it out, let it go,”
you
hope no one reads this…but it’s far too late
it is
for~formed, created,
on this the seventh day of the week,
when the Maker rested from his
creation~work, and you think maybe a day of rest, not a bad idea, smiling cause, someone is playing Joe Cocker singing,
“Have a Little Faith in Me”
and then,
“(Try) With a Little Help From My Friends”
confirming, in the governing firmament of this world there are no coincidences…*

<>

8:10 by the sky, and
checking out the sky holes and the holy,
seeing the sight lines to souls gone but always,
well remembered…they too shushing me with
loving kindness…and the next stop is
Nazareth
Roro Aug 2020
I orchestrate your violent butterflies
Fluttering and morphing into bees with big eyes
"Honey shed your chitin and be mine"
Your guardian angel and savior so divine

The strings of your heart as my violin
My grand concerto hypnotized you to sin
Made me your deity, my boat your place of worship
I welcomed your unholiness aboard my precious ship

Sailed through the clouds and into the stars
Set off on a light-speed expedition to Mars
When we returned to wander the Earth's seas
I found myself a slave to all your pleas

Mistress of this vessel yet so caged and lonely
When did I feed you so much power over me?
She was mine but I didn’t recognize
Tainted and defiled because of my lies

Her body and sails were painted red and blue
To much better suit and satisfy you
Irreverence to your deity, desecration to my shrine
I could only watch while you took all that was mine

A glimpse of land and gardens so close
Sparked a flame of hope in my life of shadows
I sprouted wings and the sun began beaming
Lighting up the rocks where waves were crashing

I raised her sails with one final goal
To free myself and take back my control
With cold confidence, I steadied my helm, directed my bow
Crashed her down like Dawson to Davy in the depths below.
Being worshipped and adored isn't always fun, especially when you feel responsible and in control of a relationship. Despite having that power and control, you're helpless and catering to every need of this obsessed person you now pity and despise. It takes strength and courage to accept when it's time to break it off and let them go. Pick YOU
P.S. Montague Dawson was a maritime painter and Davy references Davy Jones [locker] :)
*Read "shipwreck for the outro/part 2"*
Mark Lecuona Jan 2012
I can’t do it
Not like you want me to
I’m not a God
I’m mortal just like you
I loved you once
I needed you like air
But then you changed
You became a lion in its lair
You controlled my thoughts
You controlled my fate
My heart turned on you
My love turned to hate
Then one day I left
I may have saved your life
Evil had its suggestions
About a gun and a knife
Maybe you knew this
As you heard it in my voice
My mind turned to madness
I had no other choice
But now calm breezes blow
Just like when we met
You said God brought us together
You said let us not forget
But it was time
That softened my emotions
I traveled alone
But I am unable to walk on oceans
I thought of holiness
And the words of Jesus
I wondered about humans
And if he did deceive us
What are we capable of
After a journey into darkness?
How can I love someone
Who is no longer my princess?
Am I to forgive
And forget
When tomorrow awaits
With further regret?
How can I forgive
What I cannot trust?
How can I love
What a commandment says I must?
I read the words
Of the stern rubric
But I am a failure
I cannot play the music
In the unholiness of my offer
I can only give you this
I will never hurt you
But I cannot offer a kiss
You must let me go
And realize what I say
You may believe in God
But my sin does not pray
The decision has been made
You are forgiven
But I will walk into the fire
Because today only Jesus has risen



Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona
What is true forgiveness? Losing your anger or do you have to fall back in love?
with your sin stained touch,
unholy scriptures,
and whispered prayers
falling from your wicked tongue,
sometimes i wonder if we’re
truly of the ******,
disgraced in the eyes of the lord,
or if the lord revels in our unholiness
7 octobre 2020
13:03 pm
aj Feb 2016
I was there when you fell from heaven
the fire in the sky burns,
blazoned by the jade
tint of satan's Greek fire

the air was poisoned with the unholiness of you

it's easy to blame coincidence
if I am broken, perhaps I cannot fix you

my eyes are replaced with slabs of molten rock and the soulfire gaze
sears your shadow from your towering image

you are yourself and reflection
an end and a beginning

the steps toward dawn
and it's sunbleached essence
baptizes and breathes

death into life

but dusk comes not long after
closer than sin
thicker than bad blood

there's no light at the end of the tunnel
just the passing glimmer of your
one last wish

there's no light at the end of the tunnel
i won't dance with the devil
there will be no
one last kiss
A poem a day...
Samantha May 2013
The physicality of beauty has failed me, and so in desperation I pled; Oh Lord, Oh God, at least give me this!
My folly, not his. I proved to be mute (my prayers unheard). For though I prayed wholeheartedly, the union of pen and paper proclaimed loudly it's unholiness.
Condemned to be an observer unable to make sensible the raging winds of words in my brain. Incapable of sculpting the clay of my thoughts into a form of any recognizable sort.
Albeit He is merciful, and with wide eyes and wide ears I soak up spectrums of magnificence,
Daring not to wish my flesh might be coloured the vibrant hues I absorb.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
Abater, wherein art thou?
Hung in hopeless romantic gallow's?
Stuck in a cloud?

Abdicate this volition repudiate
The time is now;
For the pearlied gate's.

Proliferation'***** mine glut
None staying behind;
No if's, and's, or what's.

Grandiose word's from other's, to much saidst
Guile liar's;
Of unholiness.

Fidelity gone unseen
Lost in the finesse of foment dream's;
Daunting foresight, dearth belief
Snakes with teeth, to slither thine audacity!!!

Abstinent, they locketh their beak's
Their two people by nature, masked freaks;
Giveth thee evidence, of non-concrete
They shuffleth their feet, for defaming fun.

Biographer's, of their own self
Don't careth, for noone else;
Trap us in a wanting hell, wherein croon's art pain, pain is swell..

We fall
We fell

In their devour....... .



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
This is written while back not for noone.. Just writing (::::
brandon nagley Jun 2015
Abater where art thou?
Hung in gallows?
Stuck on cloud?

Abdicate this volition repudiate
The time is now
For the pearlied gate's,
Profliations hit mine glut
No staying behind
If, and's or what's......

Grandiose word's from others, to much said
Guile betrayer's
Of unholiness!!!!!!

Fidelity gone unseen
Lost in finesse of torment dreams
Daunting foresight, dearth belief's
Snakes with teeth, to slither thine audacity!!!!!

Abstinent they locketh their beak's
Two people in their bipolar nature, masked freaks,
Giveth thee evidence of non-concrete
They shuffle their feet for defaming fun!!!!

Biographer's of their own self
Don't care for noone else,
Trap us in a limbo hell
Wherein croon's art pains, pain is swell

We fall
We fell........

In their devour!!!!!!!
For noone again good poems +(:
Vanishing yearnings, losing sense of time, provoke a myth,
impending a little apocryphal. The sun rises and it goes. A
breathe that creates shadows, covering mountains, something
that isn’t learnt. Flawed genius. Goats cry. Mystics chant
songs that praise. A faint taunt of rage, before turning to sobs
and whimpers. Gloom in darkness. Sin to be paid. Nothing
to do, but change in shift structures.

Believe in eyesight, believe now, if not, not to worry. Garments
drop from the air, blood replacing rain, this is not to express a
furious despair. When evening is not, muddy and dark waters,
where children swim, a distraction. Adapt not. It will not reward.
Murmur of voices carry in the wind, as the earth prepares to
stop spinning, it’s prays and nothing else. Horror turns to most
resistant to a religious observer.

A collection of suffering and nothing else.  

On the other side, debates, battles, things we cannot invent
in our minds eye, argue over us. Their decision is based on
our actions. This is democracy. A flavour of goodness. Brewed
from unholiness. Tragedies remind us, constantly on death.
Yet. We all die one day. Despite our thoughts, intents and
actions leading towards it. We can’t we die together?
The Dedpoet Mar 2016
Into the night
Revealing all of the pleasures
With its hand of shadows
Uncovering what one hides
In the dark.

A blow of sky
With it's silence that burns
Between spaces when one cannot
Sleep, the cry of insomniac
Blood straying from sleep.

Into the night
One flees from things;
Or runs to them away from light,
The moist of the earth as
The back touches in a nameless
Affair between skins.

All the lust,
It burns with passion
Like a dream speaker whom
Walks with sinful nature.

And the kiss is a wound,
The fever of the moment
Turns into a black unholiness
That makes one wonder
Why the bad feels
So good.

Into the night,
All that is left from the parched
Thoughts under a bankrupt sun
Touches the inner animal,
Floods the moment
In the dead of darkness
And dies upon the touch.
aj Jul 2016
wisps and willows paint the sky with your blood
apparitions dancing in the dusk of trees that
can't bear your sight

branches swinging to **** with purpose -
to end the unholiness of you

smoke breathes and hugs the world
the devil won't **** you, and
the umbrage of my small love
can't even admit to the fact

carved into my soul with
the permanence of
a tragedy

i will not have this life but there is no
killing you
~~~when the crippling depression sets in
epictails Apr 2015
Hidden calm in a corner
She whispers, distraught, to it
Like a maiden miserly of saving
Ears unhinged from the cacophonies flying amok
Eyes inflamed with blinding unholiness
Her worth, exhausted with the world's venom
But there it lay, profoundly
Always in her reach
A fragment of herself
Buried in a sleeping past
Arms dipping the depths of silence
Solace, she seized
Raising to life a lost will within her dormant abyss
And make light of the chaos shadowing her
caja Feb 2017
(i only dream of imps)
sweaty, high-handed, they reek of brandy
although i know what they desire i bury my fists in stiff pockets
all the simple things i believe to be made up of are really technicolor and abstruse
(i only dream of this)
every night they spit viruses down my throat
bite jibes in my deepest cushiony parts
chew gold rings like stale cheerios
swathing me
in sticky mud-like paint
thin and sour
(i only dream of hell)
grafted unholiness in pits of ink
tumultuous
sore heat seething from flowery bits
greedy imp hands handling soft pillow bodies
acid breath inflating pink fleshy lungs like round dollar store balloons
(i rarely dream of clouds)
when i do they are rotting clumps of loose soil
left untended by my perverse imps
holding petals to their fever pitted cores
redressing me in noxious defamation
(i'll dream again soon)
hi im alive and slowly crawling out of one of the worst cases of writer's block ive ever had in my life, expect more garbage soon
aviisevil Feb 2014
His eyes were red and cold as he gazed upon the throne ,
With hate that ruled his heart he could break every wall of stone
Lost in his own madness , consumed by the betray of the one gones
His breath of fire shall burn and ashen every home they've known

For every man is once only a child , as pure as the morning dew
An unwritten tale of the morrow , every sight is new
One can't teach thyself to hate , it's a poison that world brews
For we forget that good is far greater but good men so few


His claws dig deeper with more despair he sees
Through the flesh onto their heart and dreams
A calm song to his soul , as his prey withers and screams
To be one with the devil now and forever , his creed


His small hands craved for warmth and embrace
But the cruel sky carved a maze of scars on his face
Little eyes searching for the lone bird in the sky
Spots one, as the bird is shot and dies before his eyes


The world is nothing but a speck of dirt in his mind
Ought to be crushed before he runs out of time
Wicked kind that decay and degrade with every breath they take ,
His love is for the dead for living he has nothing but hate


He saw them put fire to the forest of his thoughts
And the flames engulfed every nook and corner
He was burnt , Ashen to the being he was not
Pushed into the void with arrival of every  new mourner


Sharpness of his blade shining through the night
Into the approaching herd of black and white
A question before the end of why they deserve his rage ,
Stains of ignorance on every Blood soaked page


The world cut him in pieces and every part was drained of love ,
Left to die and rot , he's the phoenix who was raised in their dirt
They proclaim him as the devil , his very existence they curse
Lore of the fools , the unholiness of his birth

mind of a child was fed with hate and pain ,
Left in the dark shade , he was told to find his own name
The night found him instead , held his hand as the fear drained
Now they say he's the devil , who's the one to be blamed ?
Notes (optional)
Donna Nov 2015
Just so you know
I believed in the moment
I trusted the idea
I lent my heart a piece of mind
I used my feet as maps
I baptized your words in my soul
I told my eyes you were God
I dreamed of watching you grow into a grandfather clock
I thought maybe I could show you what it's like to give morals life
To unchain yourself from structures of unholiness
How to straighten your spine after the world tries to bend your character
Perhaps there will come a time between now and the afterlife when we will meet
somewhere between God and Heaven
But in the meantime make sure she doesn't let the rain fall on your sandcastle
And remember the creator built an umbrella in my left arm and a pillow in my right palm
Sincerely,
Formerly yours
Dante Leto Nov 2019
This vessel filled with sanguine nectar
Placed before my tortured face.
"Drink, drink", growls the Collector,
"So the ritual is not debased."
With a quiet sigh I raise my eyes
To find there's no one in sight.
But the shrill cries still to my spine bring chills
From the vague memories of the night.

"Who speaks to me in this empty place?
And what causes me these conniptions?
What are these echoes, these screams that resonate
And what source has borne this addiction?"
There's no soul here to hear my words,
Yet imposing shadows loom in the light
Of strategically placed candles set about the oubliette,
Ready to begin a dark rite.

"The one who speaks is the one who hears,
Indistinguishable except by delusion.
You writhe for the memory as the fogginess clears
And reveals the true cause of pollution:
We, Dante! We are the ones who
Fill this cup to the brim!
You are the lure and I am the hunter
And blood is what cleanses their sin."

As the snarling, disembodied voice speaks
I become filled with lecherous dread.
"You're a monster, a devil, a hideous fiend!"
I scream to the voice in my head.
I regain my composure but suddenly looking over
A room full of familiar corpses,
Torn open, bled, all eyeless sockets,
Materialized by unspeakable forces.

The flickering light from the tiny dancing flames
Eerily animate the dead,
But the bodiless shadows that tower remain
Motionless as the voice again said:
"The one who speaks is the one who hears.
By indulgence you gain from their tears,
Their terror, their anguish, they strengthen you, tame this
Devilish gnawing you fear."

Five leering shadows, eighteen festering carcasses
Surround me in grim trepidation.
Why, why do I choose to take part in this
Unholiness in this dark wretched station?
I try to refuse but my failure amuses
The entity goading me on.
I embrace the chalice of blood and of malice
And drink to fulfill the liaison.

As the ambrosia from the chalice is swallowed
A drunkenness begins to befall me.
As I stand, the five shadows, my servants, they follow
But as if they aren't walking, but crawling.
Altogether the flames grow brighter and stronger
Until the room like a kiln now burns.
The desiccated bodies prostrate and offer
Themselves so the fire upturns.

In my blood-drunken haze my eyes are opened
To the creation of my own obsession.
The Collector, the Harvester, the Reaper, the Chosen
And the Hunter, they are all but reflections.
"The others are voiceless", said the one voice I hear,
"Only I can speak as you can.
And you, Dante, are a bloodfiend, a ghoul.
In only man's realm you feign human.

"We are all you, all one in the same,
And as one we are death and disaster.
These victims before you bathing in flame
Were brought before the ritual master
That the remaining token be brought forth, bespoken
By the aspect of you that's most potent:
No, not the Chosen, though he holds the notion
Of calling that one the Unbroken."

At last all those nebulous memories
Are elucidated in this nightmarescape.
The Unbroken the voice just spoke of is me,
An amalgam of these shadows of hate,
Of murderous, methodical diabolism.
It all has finally become clear:
This black, ****** rite has brought me transcendence
As something all the more terrible draws near...
aviisevil Feb 2014
His eyes were red and cold as he gazed upon the throne ,
With hate that ruled his heart he could break every wall of stone
Lost in his own madness , consumed by the betray of the one gones
His breath of fire shall burn and ashen every home they've known

For every man is once only a child , as pure as the morning dew
An unwritten tale of the morrow , every sight is new
One can't teach thyself to hate , it's a poison that world brews
For we forget that good is far greater but good men so few


His claws dig deeper with more despair he sees
Through the flesh onto their heart and dreams
A calm song to his soul , as his prey withers and screams
To be one with the devil now and forever , his creed


He begged for the world to see him for what he was ,  
But they'll only know him as who he is now
He walked upon a road back and forth so lost
And the mute world never made no sound

He feeds on the ruins of the forgotten land ,
Upon all the lost souls that wanders into his side
Ever so caring in his warm tender hands
The gates to his kingdom are open ever so wide


His small hands craved for warmth and embrace
But the cruel sky carved a maze of scars on his face
Little eyes searching for the lone bird in the sky
Spots one, as the bird is shot and dies before his eyes


The world is nothing but a speck of dirt in his mind
Ought to be crushed before he runs out of time
Wicked kind that decay and degrade with every breath they take ,
His love is for the dead for living he has nothing but hate


He saw them put fire to the forest of his thoughts
And the flames engulfed every nook and corner
He was burnt , Ashen to the being he was not
Pushed into the void with arrival of every  new mourner


Sharpness of his blade shining through the night
Into the approaching herd of black and white
A question before the end of why they deserve his rage ,
Stains of ignorance on every Blood soaked page


The world cut him in pieces and every part was drained of love ,
Left to die and rot , he's the phoenix who was raised in their dirt
They proclaim him as the devil , his very existence they curse
Lore of the fools , the unholiness of his birth

mind of a child was fed with hate and pain ,
Left in the dark shade , he was told to find his own name
The night found him instead , held his hand as the fear drained
Now they say he's the devil , who's the one to be blamed ?
Notes (optional)
rattletaptap Jun 2015
I cry neglected and forgotten,
Alone in the darkness,
Waiting for everything to end,
Waiting for my death.
I hear the cries of angels
And the songs of demons,
I wish they would end,
I wish I could be free.
Torture has become,
My only pleasure,
I'm no longer afraid
Of fear, I now invite it.
I wish to feel, I wish to be free.

Unholiness corrupts me,
As I cry forlorn
Inside the darkness.
No raven comes for me,
No love nor hate,
I'm alone, I wish to be so.
I wish to die alone,
I wish to die in solitude.
Maybe then, maybe,
The bird will flap
Its ghastly wings....

— The End —