The Hypocrite
The Hypocrite
The Doubter hides behind religious guise,
Mistakes the raven for the pigeon in darkened skies.
His words beguile, twisting my skeletal fancy into a deceitful smile,
Espousing, “Darkness must be exposed by light”, all the while.
Release the Red Death Demon; give him an awful fright,
His impious shield of scripture fails against the night.
He preaches, "Kind words mend hearts, spirits ascend high,"
Yet barbed hypocrisy spreads, insipid platitudes take to the sky.
Spewing insolence on me and belittling with scorn,
Ripping hearts asunder, leaving broken spirits forlorn.
Yearning for light, yet veiled in religious guise,
Scoffing at Poe's gothic tales, behind pride's mask he hides.
Virtue signaling, claiming moral high ground,
But beneath the facade, echoes of pedantry abound.
An artist, a dreamer, a visionary, the bard claims to be,
"Agape love is the key," grandstanding for all to see.
Yet I, labeled "PSYCHO” in haste, these sentiments don’t reflect me.
For he knows naught of the darkness endured under violence's heir,
In nights wet with tears, gripped by my father's terror.
Am I undeserving of divine care?
Advocates for grace, yet shuns those in need,
Casting judgment with self-righteous creed.
His bigoted lips stuttering "Hallelujah," lacking praise sincere,
His pallid "Alleluia" fades in sanctimonious veneer.
A fallacious friend, a charlatan with deceitful intent,
His indignant hypocrisy knows no relent.
Proclaims peace, but pious actions call for blood,
Shunning us, the downtrodden, dragged through the mud.
Label me as 'evil', deemed lesser than thee,
Yet your moral compass falters in duplicity.
Atop his soapbox, venomous seeds he sows,
Slandering lost souls, spreading deceit as he goes.
A babbler of falsehoods, in darkness he'll debate,
Redemption lost, abatement comes too late.
Cloaked in false humility, pride leads him astray,
His self-righteous path leads only to dismay.
Alas! Plutonian specters gather at his side,
As the tolling clock tower heralds his demise—nowhere to hide.
Cast into the abyss, his blasphemous lips are stitched,
Bound by mournful threads, a silent scream of dreadful pitch.
In the shadows of his deceit, he finds no reprieve,
Condemned to silence, his lies tightly weave.
In shadowed sepulcher, where fate is sealed,
Adrift in purgatory, sins revealed.
No hymns sung at his grave, no tears to cleanse,
For his moral hypocrisy, no recompense.
Beneath the cold marble tombstone, he lies forsaken,
In the Pit where the Pendulum swings—his soul shaken.
You dared to kick the crypt of Edward Wraith,
Now in my lair, an eternal torment of writhing despair,
As my devilish raven's caw resounds in the air.
-Edward
Copyright ©
Edward Wraith
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