Your glorious angel,

turns down on his wings,

to have the horns,

of the godfather,

whom treachery hails.

As i sublime,

in the thorns of time,

away from the kinship,

spurt my blood,

castigate my torso,

mitigate the luminous,

commend the obscure.

I am sour and raw,

with the games that sacred play,

Lift me high, with the pride

under fiends foresight.

i drift from the bondage,

hands off the Lord,

spill my guts,without rue,

to feel slimy and cursed.

Lay a chasm on me-

Holy dark Lord,

as I move on with devotion

in your awe.

dont let me moan,

as myself attempts to scorn,

to ridicule mankind .

utter the word of reverence,

to the blasphemy,

I count not ,

in the patronized,

but in the one distrusted.

the ill fates of light,

let my divinity be on fire,

and the ghastly sattire ,

testify pyrrhic vicotry.