A Puritan

 


A Puritan

Embodied of a mind puritan,

Such a sacrilege to breathe

The air you have and seethe

For our eyes made him a madman.

 

Like a canvas hanging on my heart’s threads,

Every memory succumbs to pillaging souls

that once played in harmonious roles,

Now lays deep on blood-soaked beds.

 

For a no one he was, with

A dwindling spirit and death

Consuming his rotten breath,

His flame, now no more than a myth.

 

For a canvas she was, with

Greatest of creations bestowed

upon and a magnum opus showed,

Her colors on a heart’s farm as a scythe.

 

He was no artist, yet he saw

The ripped sight of the maw

That harnessed the invitation to hell

That bid the greatest farewell.

 

My name is death and I

find it beautiful to sin.

Where a drink is what you deny,

I leavy my mark with a grin.

 

The beauty to sin as a man, crafty,

is to become your verdict’s vigilante.

The wine’s delight is like a bell cord,

Calling you in and exposes you to Lord.

 

Fear not, believer, we all make mistakes,

But to mistaken me as your savior?

That is when your feeble chain breaks

And you let go of the earthly palaver.

 

My name is Death and today we combust,

Where you bestowed your heart’s ashes

I rose and the heart’s blood gushed.

Now your spirit within clashes.

 

To sin is a puritan salvation, devoured,

What you seeketh lays beneath you,

A twinkling body asking you to be scoured

For you are a puritan, souls subdue.

 

Gouge your hand and tear apart what

remains of a myth.

Gouge into the surface where angels

once danced and sang.

Use thy hands that was gifted to create

and destroy the angel within.

With its feet and hands, a mischievous servant

we all once were, but we remained.

 

No god above, no devil below, only

the tainted usurpers we are, taking

charge of our minds and losing

nothing but our bodies.

For us, the puritans,

To love is to destroy,

And to destroy is to rebuild;

thus, become no ones.


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