"Feel the horns growing on the forehead"
God on the thorn-leash
While whine and lamentation
Are audience, so sad:
How could such a superb king kneel on his own cord?
From venomous lips
Peals the caustic truth
Pure, cold, concentrated words.
Crawling under skin
Absorbing the self to make sore space.
Don't be afraid, god will compensate you
For the grief and anguish
For the cursed fate
For the blood you shed
For your loyal blindness
"Succulent are the fruits which god feeds his children with"
Splendid skin: cloth of depravation
Worms feast in this flesh of rot
They devour, consume, creating maze
The labyrinth of bedlam