I feel the silken joy of my liquid blood,
Smile upon my lips at the torrent and the flood,
The age of mortal thought has left the cold dark earth,
Every blood coated child is left on a mountain upon birth,
Some cry at the woes of this so called apocalyptic touch,
The feeling of true darkness they never bother to clutch,
Is truth to much for such a reformed Christian mind,
To blame it all on the true and faithful darker kind?
You speak as a prophet upon a graven mound,
You're lips move but my laughter blocks the sound,
Oh, locked inside such falsehood can lead to relief,
Yet I choose to shun such a hollow belief,
I may sit and mock you young ones of faithfulness,
But I mean only to show my envy of your idleness,
I too wish for the hope of heaven and a hell,
That way I may for once have something to sell.
(Note: I don't hate Christians, just think alot of them are too close minded for their own good.)