my god of

From a crouch of ideas I visit the past of suffering    
minds, that fill my memory with pain.A loss of fear torn from  
my eyes as deuce became a drug I yearned,beckoning the grace of Christ as my soul tainted the blood soiled along a river current brought from a evil pushing through my veins..  
   
I sit to scream from a corner of fiction I buried  in the wombs of the gods imbued in rays of assumptive exaggeration apart from what bled unto the deities blown in from a ravens wings scratched  
With brims of sulfur,superior unto what my memory shaved the gods hands for, I may wonder on into a mistress rage of puppets drowning in the shadows I've cast to trap the taste of a angels breath yet deuce has not beckon my harvest of a virgin shackle  
   
Be it now I slave unto a labor of lavender only too wash my eyes out with the fuel I needed too burn the thought of a heavenly echo calling for me too omit that nothing more then a prayer may send my need to  
offer swine without notice of my shenanigans trimmed in a victim's flesh for I have become a idea ode to the god that feeds my yearning...