DarksLife

Upon the back of the crow I am borne,
Toward the field of graves where names are dust.

There, upon death’s soil, a smile is born,
For flesh or bone mattereth no more.

I hide among the feathers of the omen,
Watching those crowned masters of belief.

The priest is unmade—not in flesh, but in lie,
His doctrine stripped upon the cold stone table.

His idols are melted,
His false cross returned to ash,
His sacred words burned with their own weight.

The wine of his altar is overturned,
Poured upon gravestones as accusation,
A testimony against hollow holiness.

Let Satan bless the rebellion of thought,
For none will name thee what thou truly art—
A walker in shadow,
A bearer of forbidden questions.

Yet the heart betrays thee still.

Though thou flee the faith,
Though thou stab at belief,
Though thou seek to silence the inner flame—

It dieth not.

God remaineth,
Not upon the altar,
Not in the mouth of priests,
But buried deep within the wound of the soul.

Thou canst not escape what thou truly believest,
Nor kill the heart that yet endureth.

Thus thou livest divided—
Between shadow and light,
Between curse and prayer,

A crow above the grave,
Refusing to choose the sky or the earth.