Killing the dead man (Poem)

A rotten corpse, that’s all that’s left

Squished eyeballs, grinded bones

A testimony of petty theft

The old god, smashed by boulders, stones

---

Sometimes in the dead of night

A flower blooms in this fleshy mess

Pertruding in contrast to this former terrified

And merciless religion of absolute excess.

---

I guarded this seedling with my love for each life

And me myself, I blossomed in this unreality

But then came the dead idol’s acolytes

With lunatic dances and withering scythes

Relentlessly desecrating what’s true and what’s right

Proclaiming that religion is built upon strife

So they decapitate me, my love, with one siphoning strike

And they thrive on their bloodlust, in frenzy excited

And they bow to the one they so cruesome revived.

---

So I guess, I can only cut of

My arterie to this naive faith

And use the same sharp knife thereof

To kill that dead man, kill that god.