The Raging of the Light

 

Choices were made. 

  They evoked death. 

The Devil may bind my flesh, 

  But my Soul remains in God. 

        Fervent. 

      Persevering;

Regardless of what mechanisms in me break. 

 Demons upon my flesh, 

Snapping, clawing, gnawing

  It is not bliss in God. 

          But war. 

Upon my back ever more, 

  I pray the shrine and shroud of the Light, 

     Great Protector. 

He is a mind collector, 

  Snatcher of virtue, 

Murderous intent, whispering for souls. 

and of him, I have taken blurring blows. 

Shrouded however, 

  and ever more, 

  By a war we wage 

As tiny men built of solar flare. 

Our glory blows back. Rectifies and burns when fanned. When raged. 

When tempests' come out to play. 

  It will appear coincidence 

When it is readily the raging of the Light. 

 And rage it will. 

And rage it must. 

A fiercely Might. 

  As Man, oh Cosmic Dust, 

    Still glows. 

We are 

 The raging of the light. 

Glory lit across the skies-Broad-banded and arched. 

  Giving purpose over to life and death, 

      Marked, 

 By a war- 

No recollection of having signed on for. 

  Rules, vague. 

Enemies cloaked. 

  Yet the invisible soul, rages so...

Lending purpose; 

  A graceful endowment

    & Divine, the gift. 

  And the war is worn. 

Shouldered upon us all, 

Spoiled in malintentions, 

Grommeted up in precious metals and stones. 

  The flowers permeate then, 

The thick of the air, as if masking the stench of rotting carcass, without avail. 

  In courts we pretend not to smell. 

and we scrape up what our cups can fill; 

A bend so liberal, it arches back to the Devil 

 as smoothly as piercing butter, 

  and no trouble at all. 

Masked of Virtue and wearing His Name 

We would begin to worship the wrong one. 

  and a fall, 

since that day;

The day 

Man was born.