Acéphale

Spirituality. The angst of the Grecian demon, Acéphale.

I am the descendant of Acéphale,

Born upon the Altar of the Dark Star.

I diminish the messianic light.

I drain the waters of the river Styx,

I brought the drought of the wanderers.

Thy name is nothing, Thy name is no one.

O Children! Don’t call upon thy name!

The heavens will open, the water will flow in.

Look at me, O Son! Nothing is true, everything permitted.

Let the Prophets write, on the temple walls,

The name, Aamon, shine in them, through peace and war!

Blind thine eyes, hide thee well,

The fear inside me, can never be enough.

Let the choir sing, 

Let them chant.

The Words written through a martyr’d apostles’ pen,

A tradition long forgotten, a spiritual elevation of the serpent’s tongue.

The Vicar slaughtered the beast, 

The beast of many names.

Thy voice shall be heard,

Thine hand shall crush,

The ones who betrayed me. 

The Altar beckons me,

Back to the depths.

The Star Shines dim,

On the blasphemous lord.

And let the heavens hear it

Thy heinous hymn.

Come forth in war,

Come forth in peace.

Author's Note

I am aware of the unorthodox nature of this poem (no rhymes, or patterns).