A Choir of Lies

In the halls of guilt, where coins
sing like crickets in the dark,
their psalms rise, a lattice of smoke
curling from a dying flame.
fear not the sins of others,
rather the sins of their own,
more than the sins of devil,
It's the sins of the Father after all.
 
The altar gleams, not with divinity,
but with the cold sheen of rivers
choked by gold. Their voices echo,
hollow gourds beaten by the wind,
each note a shard of glass
pressed against the throat of belief.
 
Abaddon watches like a stormcloud
over fields of withered grain.
Fenriz prowls, the wolf of shadows,
gnawing on the roots of broken truths.
Lilith lingers softly, silent as moonlight
spilling through cracks in cathedral walls.
 
They speak of paradise,
but their heaven is a spider’s web
each thread spun from fear, damnation
each catch a soul entombed in amber.
Their god sharpens his teeth
on the brittle bones of their charity,
his laughter a hymn
their hearts refuse to name.
 
In each of their prayers, I hear
the rustle of dry leaves,
the empty rattle of seedless pods.
Proserpine weeps for the earth
they have scorched,
her spring now a withered hand
grasping at ash.
 
Their god is a clockwork beast,
wound tight by trembling hands.
They chant, hoping to drown
the clatter of its gears,
but silence escapes them,
a snake sliding through the reeds.
 
The equinox tides waves rise,
drowning the stones of their empire.
Sekhmet’s roar is the crack
of a long-dry riverbed,
her fury older than their creeds.
Even their God, devourer of innocents is amused,
He turns his gaze from the spectacle,
disgusted by their hollow words.
 
They build temples of shadows,
caverns where the echo of truth
has been smothered
by velvet robes and incense.
Pay now an sin later, their collection bowls
overflow with fallen grace.
Yet the gods of old they look on,
a quiet council of stars
watching the slow collapse.
 
No fire awaits them but the one
they ignite and kindled themselves
a furnace of words,
a pyre of promises.
Their sermons crumble,
a tower of sand in the tide,
and the gods laugh,
not in malice, but in pity,
a path leading to self righteousness,
yet all return to the fertile soil,
all know this as truth, even if they say not.
buy a place in the eternal Nothing!
There preachers stand preaching,
follow me and get lost, eternity for a price
and his flock follow blindly,
Sheep being lead to a slaughter.