The Followers

You sang a song

of the death of Her,

and expected me to rejoice

in it;

told me to find

peace in her torment,

and in my own.

Stripped I am,

at the hands of you,

of your sweet lament

of your own sacrificed


as you tell me to

cry over your iconography,

all the while dancing

on the ashes of

my dead sisters,

whose screams still

echo in the darkness,

illuminated by the flames

of the hell you reap

while singing songs

of love and

your own


Tenderly you

caress the open

wound of your

glorious bounty,

drawing in the fetid

scent of the rotting


contained therein.

You celebrate the

reign of your

thorn encrusted king,

flesh rendered

mute by the

torture you heap

frenzied praise upon.

Condemning me my


my head turned away

from your emasculated


preferring the truth,

the thing you seek most

to destroy,

the queen of all of


the one thing you have

never been able to


despite all your

most desperate yearnings,

that thing,

that pervades all existence

in all her most

glorious forms.

That is the truth

that burns you

like the hand

of condemnation

that you offer wholesale.

That is the truth

that poisons you,

leaving you rasping

in anger,

unable to

create the very thing

you seek to control.



4 comments on “The Followers

  1. 1markt says:

    Very, very, powerfull. The phrasing and breaks are well placed and ease the flow while maintaining rhythm. Great work and the subject
    matter is such that it is to be approached with a great scope, which you expose first then develop so that others may also see. This is good.

  2. ozymandiaz says:

    magnificent powerful work

  3. ejalvey says:

    Thank you, Ozymandiaz

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