Souls Paved Over

Is I who mocks God?
From the darkness of my chapel,
Dizzy in the fog of the incense of opium,
Praying to the gods in my head,
But at least I commune.
I drink at my altar,
For wine is my lifeblood,
And my mouth is
the bittersweet dualism
of scripture and sacrifice.
I sit with the congregation,
each face oddly familiar
yet distantly distinct.
Is it, perhaps, the disgust
that their faces cast on me
as I writhe in blood as tribute?
I am the world's sacrifice,
and yet the world's to forget.
I spend my days and nights
starving and mad.
Rambling, shouting, cursing,
Madness.
And how is it that such a presence
can be forgotten by the world?
How mad is such a world
that a man like me is forgettable?
So I just lay here in my concrete palace
as the fog thickens around me.