From nature's own art hath thine life been forged,
A form brought about by the mold of hate,
On Earth's bountiful curses thou hath gorged,
Yet thy wants exist still for thou to sate.
Ghastly songs, eerie tunes, still sung by thee
Synchronous to the crescendoing screams,
A legend, a creature, thou meant to be,
A deathly game, sick, tailored for thy whims.
Why oh why, doth thou follow Abaddon,
Satan's kin, Devil's boon, sins to add on,
Murders and thefts, unpetty hellish schemes
Those which the righteous shalt ought to spit on.
           Assume not that thou shalt be forgiven,
           As sure that punishment, thou shalt be given.


© johndavidday