poems

blasphemy

At the first strike of midnight
Then bubbles the cauldron
When blooms the flower of moon light

The sounds of night animals drown
The sounds of pained screams
Cellar below with the withering agony
Those that died on consecrated hallowed ground

In the cellar of the once proud estate and comes forth with all the powers of hell
When rise to the dread lord and he who rules the wicked
Even the power of the holy saints cannot withstand
The rise of pure evil

As they come
To wipe the slate clean
And end the final strike of twelve
Because evil always finds a way
When the overlord is present today