Crisscrosses the barriers

of the ecclesiastical mind.

Fraught with the perils unknown

of a prophets false time.

Ancient charts, new worlds

Black angels with golden curls

Directing still the lost visions

of the city of Dis’s clamoring minions.

Lifting on high the banner of death,

They steal the souls of a beggar’s bread.

While the shades of torment seek their Shiloh.

For nothing remains of the now silent prophet

and many no longer plea nor lift up their head

For they realize again and again and again,

That from this place, filled with angst and disgrace

they shall never part nor flee.