Disfigured Gods

Lend me your soul this tempest night

So says the god of your darkness

Let me put your old fears to flight

Your freedom for my gold harness

This is the way your life will end

Your heart coaxed free from discontent

Feathered bed with nothing to mend

Earl Grey tea bereft of her scent

For the devil’s peace is mindless

Smoke clothed in gold raiment and gloves

Nothing but your blissful blindness

A third eye plucked by blood soaked doves

Your despair wrapped as moral grit

Your jail a heavenly mansion

All the lies in your holy writ

Holding you up as a stanchion

For the souls in hell know no pain

Wrapped as they are in their deceits

Their souls nourished in crimson rain

Then hewn to pay off old receipts

In the end just disfigured gods

The lords of their own damnation

Buggered by their own feathered rods

Their death imagined salvation

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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