Standing in bare feet, on a Beach of Broken Glass., Not far away from where the Babtized gatherto receivetheir Shrowd. Cold sunshine, bleeding out, behind the sunshine, Shadows falling down, mirrored rain drops, showing me the Spot, where the staked down will drown.
Summoned to the chambers just before the Unholy hour, as I stroll the emptinesst of the dark halls, I can hear the clarics cackle. Like 5 & 2 The 7 sealed is my fait,, say The Whispers from the line leading to Hell's Gate., as my Knuckles rap on the steel of your metal door way. I see you in the mirror it's too late to call you now, you're still bleeding from the ones that Hold You Down, They feast on Wine and bread, without any hesitation are thought from whom, or what, it bled. It's always been the way for the congregation, falling into the crowd of segregation.
Thasociallyinsanepoet
Pat Paxton
©madhatter
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