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Poem

A severe façade of loving tolerance
Dipped in an argentine semblance
The Consuls of The Cross
Weaving a sweven of Welkin
Where the checkered ones
Are never allowed
Their souls cast into the flames
Of a greater decay
The never ending pit
Of eternal torment

You turn the other cheek
The one that wields the clandestine dagger
The dreams of being free grow lighter and light
The truth is shrouded by sister-Night
Clinging onto existence 
Never eluding the resistance

I will never adhere 
To your Sanguinary Lord
Bestowing The Crusader’s reign
Against the sand and the desert’s wane
Barraging him over the frame
In desperation to appease
Screaming and shouting
I will wash away your sins

Decadence of the ones to throw the stones
The ones to enforce the book
Has left your lies dry and ready to die
No more tears are left to cry
No more screams are left to scream
No More blood to be split
No more graves to be dug

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