Title art “Morning Star” by L.H. Grey



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The Garden of Eden “Serpent in The Garden”





I am your worst fear personified
I am its magnification
It is I who prise open the flesh
I who delve inside you
I who tear out your bloody heart while it still beats
I who arrange your funeral
and I who deprive you of an open casket


you think you know suffering
think you know loss
think you know desperation
you know nothing
nothing has prepared you for this separation
I shall peel the skin away from your miserable bones
and wear you as a robe
snatch both your eyes from their hollows
slash them wide open just to read them weep
before crushing them in my palm like lychees


I will be the very last thing that you see
before you die
final thoughts not permitted
as you’re already committed
your God cannot save you now
why would he
after all
it was He who enslaved you
and you let him
you offered your blessing
and he had no intention of reciprocation
thus there will be no white light beckoning
just my eyes on your sorry soul as I eat it whole


They will blame me for this
as they do every time I take matters into my own hands
They warn against me
He whose name must not be spoken
He who claims he was forsaken
but whose cries fell on deaf ears
He who was banished from a kingdom they have the gall to call heaven
a place where sinners aren’t welcome
where you must earn your seat
by turning a blind eye to their malignant deceit
worshipping their deity
He who cares nothing of their exertion
and even less of their outcome


So you see
Holy Man
your end is but a means for my amusement
your mortal agony nothing to what awaits you
and the heaven you spent your entire life praying for
is one you shall never discern
you think your God will avert his eyes as you burn into ash
he’ll watch on most eagerly
just like he did with the Christ
the Almighty could have ceased his suffering at any time
had he been that way inclined
had it not been his sick perversion
to denounce his own progeny
so really
do you suspect he’ll give a fuck about you


you are nothing to him
but a lamb to be slaughtered
and quartered
bled out at this unholy altar
say your prayers
or if you prefer
last rites
as I’m beginning to tire of your pathetic cries
and there is so much work still to be done
so many pains still to be felt
so many deaths still to endure
and this will merely be your first


lowest bidder won
I own you now
your sorry existence up until this point has meant nothing
you frittered your right to possess your own mind
and followed the rest of the flock
I’ll get to each of them in turn
one by one
they shall see the error of their ways
too little too late
I shall feed on their every terror
and in their cruor I shall bathe


first things first
man of the cloth
no time left to ponder the schism
as the time has now very much come
for your true baptism






Richard Charles Stevens


Keeper of The Crimson Quill



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