The Blood On Satan's Sword
They gather in congregation.
Their prophet wired into their core.
To avoid, and yet, to conquer.
The blood on Satan's sword.
They are the modern virtue.
The wax shaping onto the floor.
Solidified to overcome.
The blood on Satan's sword.
And as they all embraced their symbol.
It's fear encased within their mental.
All saintly men have cowered and trembled.
At the blood on Satan's sword.
They say we'll all be torn asunder.
If we don't fear the darkest thunder.
Then we'll face the infernal slumber.
And taste the blood on Satan's sword.
Terrified and forlorn.
Still, an answer one man seeks.
The so-called blood on Satan's sword.
Why has it always gone unseen?
He has questioned their fixed path.
They swear he'll see the fiery bath.
The stained glass adorned with wrath.
The holiest evil now is cast.
Onward they wander in plight
Are they praising whats wrong or whats right?
Raising their royal swords, not pride?
Their blades dripping of crimson lost life.
poem by Aaron Lynn
Added by Poetry Lover
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