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A dark spirit looms amongst wretched pulpits
Old, forgotten, woeful and decayed
Wandering the ruined sacellum
Searching, seeking for scraps to sustain

Vestments once gilded, now threadbare
Relics, once gleaming, their lustre dulled
Dissolved in the aqua regia
Stained glass panes shattered

Malign spirit, thou speakest of the serpetine
Worshipped and adored by this wretched cult
Dwindling as they consume your poisonous sacrament
The weak, the tried, the sick, the lame, the faded

Beneath the vaulted, vaunted roof
Rotten wood pillars devoured by worn
Crumbling pages of mildewed tomes
Dissolved by lepers' acrid drool

Anointed in the blood and enshrined in thorns
Consume from the chalice of abomination
A feast of dry blood and dead flesh
Abhorrent are their rites of exaltation

Hands clasped, on bended knees
Eyes lowered in deference
"I am His servant, Him made flesh
You, unworthy, bow, submit"

In this slaughterhouse of love
Barren words stick in their throats
As dry bread with no wine
Hope displaced by impotence

Heed not the words of the craven
To centuries of decay lie the spires
No arcadia beyond the veil
Revel in the spheres of absurdity
For true elysium lies within...

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