How tragic it is that we wasted
the purity of the sun's blood
that rained down from the heavens
when our prayers betrayed our hopes
and beckoned the fall of man,
for it would always be us
that mistook our nightmares
for divine providence
as we built cathedrals of despair
O the heresy of happiness
breaking His word in confusion,
expecting our love for grief
to become rapture
when the light of morning dawns
in the abandoned eastern kingdoms,
for it is the charlatans of blessings
that will herald our downfall,
and how could we be anything but doomed
when shackled to these spirals of mortality,
for it is not the angels that sound their trumpets
to warn us about the end times:
Nay, blessed are we but with their silence
to blind us from the horrors of our truth,
and the sinister purposes behind their teachings
for we were never meant to be more than sheep
To suffer is to breathe,
to live is to be defeated;
to hunger is to sin,
and to sin is to be human
So how could we ever reject
the loving hand stretched out from our brother,
bringer of dawn, the star of the east,
when it is the last beacon that shines through
this fog of holy deceit
