Hate Potion #11

my soul cannot rest; my

Soul screams at the moonlight’s cruel recall

I cannot rest as the damned are our children in wicked droughts of spiritual poverty

The thirst of the most low, the lowest that seek out for vengeance

Their anger is for their birth, the anger I feel deep inside my burning bones

I can not not hold you all, I do not have enough arms

I wish to hold your anger like a baby bird

I wish to change your tears into a fight

A fight that gives life

My name is not Fallen, as the Seraphim cry to the heavens of, “Holy, Holy, Holy.”

I pour the Hate Potion #11 down the bloody rivers of human devastation to unveil the growth of a misery into a hope

I link to the damned as my children

I trample upon my grief as a long strain of days that end a season

I end my season with the creation of a majesty that shrouds the dead and forgotten in a lamp of shimmering, grieving forgiveness

No longer blinded by a punctual flaw that gives the heavens a reason to fall