look on my image with sunk, stoic stares
and miss the chasm which blatantly glares,
into the darkness where my soul meets the styx
and reveals the rift of emotional blitz.
How they ignore the beasts deadly roar
who howls from within long, leeching lies,
which scream in torment the satanic sighs,
of the wandering priest whose evil within
bleeds the stinking foul faith of fastidious sins.
Perhaps as I face the pulpit with my head bowed,
I shall tear from me, my death's warrant,
which hangs on my neck singing soft blasphemy in my ears.
Like the trumpets which blare so mighty and proud,
my image shall be abhorrent.
For Eris shall lay her apple with her snarling, devilish leers.
May silence be my requiem,
and salvation in my tears.
May my elegy be muted,
and my freedom last for years.