Once a lair for mortals, whose bodies did share such brilliant splendor,

Atop an age cursed mound of earth, the tainted soil browns all life,

Decrepit lair and shadowed place of once tragic worshipping,

Yes, black voices sing down from the spiders' cob bound glass,

And over us a masque of Judas leers down from a throne of betrayer's skulls,

From his cracked lips, syrup of gore seeps,

While sinners stay spiked to black'nd walls, limbs torn and flesh unmercifully flay'd.

Light brings one eager eye down to prey upon this place, in hopes of a more holy tomorrow, yet all know too well these betrayers will never leave their place behind. An aging monastery,

A broken cathedral where bench and faith are both toppled and as man walks upon such filthy floors, the ground does crack beneath his weight, with the burden of the bones of many innocents.

Life seems absent from this place, and though fertile souls stray so far away, there is no wondering what the cold lair may bring.

The mighty domed hull, once vibrantly alive with mural of the Lord,

Peering down at them with pupiless, pale optics,

And a mighty chandelier, now demolished with the age that it has witnessed, lies on the bone strewn floor, weeping its flaming memories in hopes that they would desist.

Tall and proud an altar of unholy ways rises so far, towering over all others who wish to flout the one true master, sovereign and Lord.

Halls are scattered with cages, where the encaptured reach out at life, trying desperately to understand what has now become meaningless to them.

The once appealing stone walls, lined with trifling notices and parchment now lay handled in disturbing hands, where red candle light dances in knife scarred faces, and repent is not a melody that has been heard.

In the great hall lie the thin tears of sunbeams which still wish to rain upon such a nest of petty, truly malevolent pests.

Man and woman forged from granite weep tears for the wicked,

Life but a mere inconvenience for the newly imprisoned,

Their souls cry out by the soft flickering candles, wishing for freedom,

For one thing that will never come, and will forever be a mere dream,

The fair Lord stares down at them with appalled eyes,

The Glass iris now shattered on cold stone,

Knives graft through painted faces, tears of shattered minerals trickle to

The ground,

Fallen seraphs do wrap the torn Lord in wings of black.

Once upon a time of prosper, was this sovereign praised by just followers,

Now mocked by those who wish to hunt him as the immortal prey.

The last chains of sanity are unlinked and broken

Bodies are shattered in unholy names, by which are unspoken in good terms

Men bring knives down upon warm, fertile breasts,

Their mad cackling taints the wind that walks amongst them,

"Pray and be saved", says he, but why is it that we are crestfallen,

For neither mother nor father comes to our dire aids.

Ash blights the air and locks that were once so clean are now black'nd with pestilence

Breaking through us like a bad omen which comes to truth.

Here be the vile Lord's death jesters and homicides, come to greet us in mutant packages.

Now come, see the scorn upon such hellish soil, no more plant grows upon this unclean mulch and no more animals search for growth nearby.

These men, with hearts with the damned of Hell,

They rise with us, for new beginnings and to rot such clean oxygen with the ashes of forgotten ancestors.

Now both man, woman and child alike lay hung by rusted chain,

And skulls sit, staring at weary passers; maggots who take refuge in their sockets give eyesight to the blind dead.

They reach out crooked fingers, only Hell to pay for their wicked deeds

Their chests leak foul acid and rancid rot,

For they are no longer children of Heaven's tender touch,

Now fallen down from crooked ages.

So do not come upon thee with dire blood of burden

And dying hearts.

So weep with tender tears of scarlet and serum of gore,

And for once, and for all they will lash out at us with crooked, bony fingers,

And they bear black pits for eyes that once were there,

But now shudder for what they wish,

Hang corpses drenched in blood, and let both man and beast skin those whose lives once were.

Corpse of long missed mother and child,

Cathedral in which hideous rituals do progress,

And love which is no longer wanted,

Corpse of poor man and noble,

And a cathedral which now burns,

With hatred, with pain and burden,

For the rotted wood crackles, and men's flesh twists and disappears, into rancid mounds,

And spirits trapped in unlimited mounts of rubble,

Never to escape and knock on unwanted doors,

With hands that can love no more.