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Dyscarnate
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Those Who Trespass Against us
An illumination shines so smugly, a crooked finger which beckons for so many men of the cloth.
The tale remains relevant; offering its name to no wrech.
To pardon is to profit, the prophet with the burden.
Spewing venom through his sermon to the sinners of society.
Lecturing the masses as the greed slips through their pockets.
These are the ones who tresspass against us - in the game of the father.
The distorted line adorns the grimace of every peice.
Like so many aspirations upon the wheel.
This corrupt game of chances dances within the minds of the flock - as they gaze at the stakes - guaranteed everything but success.
With such twisted optimism they gaze at the stakes - flayed alive by the bringer of truth.
The pocket is lined with regret.
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Disgust: gold spews from the wounds so plentiful to fill the pockets of the prophets and makes the cycle.
Not double but nothing.
Returned to the blaze to be cleansed by the filthy one.
The line hangs dangling from a forgotten smirk.
A sordid palm outstretches - the squalid fingers peel skin from flesh and the rubies adorn clothe.
The faces all look so familiar, staring past the harlequins - who crouch beneath the pawns (they can feel the sinister smiles).
The faces look familiar, that sneer at the mindless optimism.
Their eyes drip through the lines and the stack blurs till it reeks of the unknown.
As we forgive those who trespass against us, those who trespass against us, those who trespass against us - in the game of the father.
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