Souls dance around gleaming glitter and gold.
“Ay!” Cried the church, “the Devil’s grown bold.”
The sickness in between the dark and what’s shown.
Debts to be paid, eager eyes left to loan.
“Hero!” Cried the children, “Heroine come too!
Many of us need you, there is much ado.
If there is nothing you can offer, let us pray to them.
The material can’t hold us, only words like your hymn.”
More souls erupt into a clatter once more.
“Ay!” Cried the church, “we won’t close our door.”
They have much to give to all who want to live.
They have less to offer to those upon “him” that prosper.
“Heroine!” Cried the children, “Hero come soon!
We have spoiled ourselves again, we have nothing to do.
Some of us are afraid some of us confused.
All of us say “wait here, he’ll show us what to do.”
Bleak breathers bask beyond the Church ground.
Bleak they still want to be believers but so weak.
Rage shed its tears on the souls forever lost, not found.
Rage can’t defeat the happiness on the faces behind its cage.
Souls may dance, young against old.
The Devil may be strong but soon he will grown cold.
This sickness has a cure and to the light it will be shown.
Debts will be paid, no eager eyes left to roam.