Pathological,
Psychological,
Spiritual Warfare.
He sat atop the hill,
Taking his spirit pills,
Reading his bible,
And praying the rosary.
He shot at the children who were quickly dispatched,
Not so long after they were hatched,
The hatred in his heart was clearly unmatched,
How are you supposed to love me like that?
I sat atop the hill listening to devil music,
And watching the lovers have their picnic,
The hatred in my heart was reprehensible,
How am I supposed to defend the indefensible?
Our hatred makes a great pair,
But you'll continue your spiritual warfare.
She hung upon the birch tree,
With fragility,
Her abode now is the grave,
Look at the road you've paved.
YOU ARE READING
This Lost Heathen
PoetryA poem in the form of a concept album based around an atheist named Christian In a devoutly religious town.
