Antichrist

I am not the angel child

That i so seem to be,

For my growth hath hearkened

Tell of a silent deformity.

On the dusk of an age, my calling

Beckons in the forest of the dead.

As i descend from the above, the world

Shall know a different kind of dread.

Grief, pain, despair, kill, burn...

And it all starts today with my death.

Antichrist...

Reflect upon the bleakness

Of the fragile human mind,

And the faint line between life and death

That has made us all so blind.

I am not a human

And i am not alive,

Yet mine is not the soul so black

That you seek to hold inside.

I am the antichrist.

Christ, god...

“this suffering and all my memories

Forsaken, when i gave my name

For you to live in peace.

So, speak your sordid words,

And spit upon these broken hands

That have lifted you up from your knees.”

Carve it away and watch it bleed:

Of broken pieces and blood conceived.

For when you die, i’ll be whole again,

The blood of your martyrs running in my veins.

The beggars three have come tonight.

The antichrist is coming back to life.

“i embrace this stinging.

I accept this punishment.

With dignity, i bleed for you,

And these scars, i wear with pride.”