Oh how the holy slither with devoted, dragging tongues,
to the symphony of Her sprouting seeds swelling, one by one.

The muck and mire and rotted matter cling to fur, flesh and scale,
as they shout and gasp and curl around those tattered gospels, failed.

What beauty in their plummet, seraphic now, their screams,
jade-lit fires commanding each pyre with conflagrant blasphemes.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 2nd of Midsummer, in the year 504 MA.