Dyscarnate Those Who Trespass Against Us
An illumination shines so smugly,
A crooked finger which beckons for so many men of the cloth
The tale remains relevant; offering its name to no wrench
To pardon is to profit, the prophet with the burden
Spewing venom through his sermon to the sinners of society
Lecturing the masses as the greed slips through their pockets
These are the ones who trespass against us, in the game of the father
The distorted line adorns the grimace of every piece
Like so many aspirations upon the wheel
This corrupt game of chances dances within the minds of the flock,
As they gaze at the stakes, guaranteed everything but success
With such twisted optimism they gaze at the stakes,
Flayed alive by the bringer of truth
The pocket is lined with regret
Disgust, gold spews from the wounds so plentiful to fill
The pockets of the prophets and makes the cycle
Not double but nothing
Returned to the blaze to be cleansed by the filthy one
The line hangs dangling from a forgotten smirk
A sordid palm outstretches, the squalid fingers peel skin from flesh and the rubies adorn clothe
The faces all look so familiar, staring past the harlequins,
Who crouch beneath the pawns (they can feel the sinister smiles)
The faces look familiar, that sneer at the mindless optimism
Their eyes drip through the lines and the stack blurs 'till it reeks of the unknown
As we forgive those who trespass against us, those who trespass against us,
Who trespass against us, in the game of the father