A Cult, A Sufferer

From solitude to loneliness, trust to naivete, love to blindness,
Rose-hues wilt and fade to black.

From Sunset to Apocalypse,
I waited,
I prayed,
I wished,
For fleeting sustenance, fleeting words.

Your bittersweet torment of lashes and lips,
Decayed and rotted,
The only lonely leper, bereft of Saviour,
The serpent of carnal plagues,
Seeking your black revenge.

Placed in a sarcophagus under your self-nailed crucifix,
Razorblade stigmata and mind-welted tears,
Held in nailed palm, Apple of the Mother,
Upon thy false locks, woollen thorny crown,
Of which you wail of in your agony.

Your Devil's heartache, daemons' despair,
Lie awake, unable to dream of loneliness,
While we suffer in nightmarish fever,
Remain on your cross and cry your mourning repentance,
No-one is listening.

Saviour's mimic, I see you dying,
As you weep over frivolous rules,
And concocted restrictions,
While you reject His givings, His gifts,
And claim, "Holier than thou".

Admiration of your mask,
Turned to repulsion of your contorted gesture,
Of hatred,
Of superiority,
Of misery,
I cannot show love for pity,
The dread you have of your Saviour,
May they have mercy, as I weep for you.

From solitude to loneliness, trust to naivete, love to blindness,
Rose-hues wilt and fade to black.