Absent In The God Storm

From your promiscuous eyes,
Can you see the storm getting closer?
Disarray amongst the skies,
fog faces spitting acidic goodbyes.
Filth in your face,
cradled to strangling embrace,
waiting in scorch, for a God's heretical prize.

Coward, unbeliever,
Foul spawn conceiver.
Lay your wishes to the storm,
whipped in the wind,
severed in lightning.
Black widow skirts unpinned,
the skin on celestial stained bones
pale and yet, still ever whitening.

Pour the ethereal wine,
into raven clasp glasses,
through the sacrificial circle,
Hallowed hands grip the passes.
Can you feel the storm,
can your heart beat to it's drum,
attuned to the ceremonial artform,
Which circle of Hell is this storm from?

Do your sins wash away,
when gold serpent blades strike home?
Are you the heretic's reprieve,
a meal worm's buffet,
Or are you what the dead believe?

Storms are getting closer,
tamed and quick as steel,
a banshee's composer,
shrieking from your wicked rape unreal.
The tide is high,
mind the carrions with no reply,
And watch the storm gather,
or is it upside down,
and a slit throat you rather?