The one without a rhyme


In a dim, faithless church

Among faceless statues

Of wet salt and brimstone

Where no halt is welcome

And straight columns of air

By the great organ built,

Such lonely, kind giants,

Are the only guarants

That its order lives on

Is preached another verse

Of silence and iron,

The balance of its words

Is reached when the bell tolls

And the border of truth

Swallows bits of old sins

Full of fits of dark rage,

And the gospel repeats

In an endless canon

As an old spell slithers

– Sorceress in her keep -,

Not even the light words

However, be it said,

Above the arched entrance

To heaven on the earth

In fever long written

Shall march demons away:

Blasphemy in the font

For forces are at work,

Alchemy is at play,

When corpses march again.


          Hour 10.

Completely out of nowhere but still cooler than I expected.

Might need to be reworked.

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