The Diabolical, Dark Days

Here’s calamity—the destruction of religion.
The Devil lives on illusions only, some deception
Hold no belief. We cannot look to superstition.
The Devil may own, upon the world, such confusion.

It is impossible for men to conceive the world gone daft,
In which good and evil are relative; the world goes mad.
This is a strange time, from dawn of day to blink of night,
Upon the altar, of brick and mortar… we see no light.

Like not the smell of authority—doubt the powers of the dark.
The Devil is precise, the nature of man caught for a fraud.
Of heavenly combat between the Lord and Lucifer, order and freedom,
The Devil is a wily one—never believe marvelous pretenders.

Wonder on it: no one can really know the pure in heart.
There is too much evidence now that the town’s gone wild,
Fear nothing but thundering wrath that profits nothing:
A lump of vanity, a deadly sin.

Think on it: like a beast upon the flesh of pure lambs.
The Devil’s agents, cold and cruel… always kept poppets
As weapons—kings, philosophers, scientists, ecclesiasts.
The Devil is alive, and God is dead!


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