- The Almighty

In green mists wade
A pristine failure,
Its eight spider legs
Trail remains of the pure.

Invincible under Sunday's shade,
It sips blood like wine.
Sins decay in the alleys
Of flint friendly canines.

No escape nor aid
With claws through the wrists.
Optimism turns sour
And drains the will to resist.

Patiently it laid,
Soaked in the lifeless sound,
How pitiful the prey,
Now blinded and bound.

See what god's made
Out of ash and rain.
Feasts on sanity
And any hopes that remain.

Bloody knees scream, afraid,
Why would they lie?
These shaking, desperate tears,
Aimed at an empty sky.