Lucifer, the Broken Mould
Alone He stands, forsaken, on the edge of desperation
Apocalyptic tales of hate filled desecration
The unholy one devoid of any love nor hellish glory
Lies revealed within the telling of his story
Cast from Heavens favour, fractured from the light
Home at last to labour, in the vacancy of night
No choice but to be Bad for Good no chance of Gods Redemption
Racked by indignation at His screaming souls exemption
Mans destiny lies written in a wake of tortured souls
Ancient gnarled fingers hold His bloodstained begging bowl
Bathed in hellish beauty of a future yet unborn
Hell hath no more fury than a fallen angels scorn
His horsemen blaze a fiery trail across the barren sky
From Hades gates they ride not caring who or even why
Brands of fire, hooves of Steel, their blood it drips as sweat
The only quest before them, to cash in the Devils debt
The ace of spades is drawn from the Devils book of prayer
The gambler knows his race is run and death is drawing near
No silver in his pockets for the boatmans sordid toll
The last debt yet to pay..... his very soul
A necessary evil for a Devil to be shod
For without the fires of Hell, how can mankind know of God
As Judas in Gethsemane condemned to take the fall
Was Lucifers faith written out in blood upon the wall
Copyright © Peter Walsh | Year Posted 2014
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