Sunday, 12 July 2009

The Harvest Festival

This is a poem about how the Churches have become the home of Satanic paedophiles.

The poem is written from the perspective of a victim of the crimes of the priests who sees what happens to him as the pre-cursor of the Apocalypse.

I am the apocalypse, I am the revelation,
The bitter pip of truth from a fallen fruit,
Spat from the mouth of a false god,
Banished from communion with wolves,
Exiled from a church built with lies,
Whose walls are cemented with sins,
And blessed by the prayers of pederasts,
For I am witness to all that has been done,
The cross of pain and nails of kisses,
And the sullying spear of perverted desire.

He whispers to me as the agony begins,
“ Call me Holy Father my son “, he hisses,
As his fingers start to violate my flesh,
Muttering catechisms between his breaths,
To lure little children from the light,
And become mere receptacles for his lust,
Then keeping the secret in a cage of fear,
Under threat of exorcism from Eden,
Flaying the pale fleece of innocence,
From weeping lambs abandoned to their fate.

Smiling from the pulpit he praises the faithful,
Dressed in their Sunday best, with blind devotion,
They await the bleak blessings he bestows,
As the incense burns in its censure,
So too the seeds of desire in the heart of evil,
Seething with savage intent in silence,
On bended knees the faithful kneel in the dust,
Where their sons and daughters were baptised,
With the semen splashes of his lust,
The holy church corrupted, filth encrusted,
Transformed into a hollow that Christ has fled.

As the choir sings its hymns, I see what hides within,
The mocking serpent with its smile,
Offering the bread and wine of sin and lies,
To the faithful who swallow every deception.
And whose blindness is such they never see,
Their own children being raped in the name of Christ,
Whilst cardinals and bishops meet to conspire,
To hide the truth of their brothers crimes,
In their conclaves, courts and cassocks,
They secrete their secrets and whisper in corners,
Thereby consigning yet another generation,
To the living hell of excommunication
For daring to reveal, what must always be denied.

Soon they shall reap the harvest of their crimes,
And the exodus begin, for Holy Christ will lead
The faithful from the lie, the light from the dark,
And free all lambs from Egypt’s slavery,
As the Harvest Festival commences,
And the Final Judgement will sound its fury,
For every pederast in their filthy frocks,
Will feel the full force of the living God,
And Christ in his armour of adamantine hate,
Shall slay every enemy within his gates,
Until the rivers of faith run red with flood,
And the land is drowned in serpent's blood,
As with fiery sword in hand the rapture erupts,
And with Holy War a New Kingdom built,
Upon the bones and rubble of all that once stood,
For every sin and lie that the Holy Christ denied,
And every Church falls where serpents once lied.

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1 comment:

Anonymous said...

a detective knocked my door and in my surprise he said my name I thought what have I done

he said that the priest when you were young in youth
you trusted
had taken his life

I asked why
he was being pursued for
his sins against the young
he lead eschew