Filosophy Of Death
At night, dark long coat, black shiny casual shoes,The crack of a treebranch disturbes the rest of anonymous lifeforms,
A bee stinged with thorns, yellow stripes turn red,
Stonecold female screams, returning children to bed,
The sound of a cigar clipper echoes through the empty hallway,
Door drops open, smoke runs from the stairway,
Who can it be?
Said the feared widow maiden,
Unaware that her first born daughter lost her virginity,
Taken by brutal force, moaning, this is divinity,
Blood soiled the stables,
A child will be born under a blackmoon, near an oaktree,
Placenta serves as food for orphans,
Call him the angel of Death, like his father,
But keep him locked away in the dungeons of the old monastery,
And so the tradition will live on,
Without, there would only exist immortality,
And that should not be,
Only a few should be given such power,
Those who strive for perfection in reality,
Some may call me evil, some may call me bad,
But some do not have the wisdom to realise I save them from true pain,
Mortality is a gift for the mentally dumb, deff and blind among us,
Most of the world population....
Escaping this forsaken planet....you should call yourself lucky,
I will dwell this place till eternity,
I will pass on the sword to my son, when the time is right,
He who was born out of true love,
Made in the heat of pain...
Poetry by Catacomb Villain
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Written on 2006-12-07 at 18:25
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