Brothel of Saints

You have your eyes closed and you are being deceived.

Demons in disguise,

Ever so pleasing to the eye.

In reality, you are only wanted to die.

Just watch as their shadows fly,

Revealing what their bodies hide.

Sometimes I go to pray,

But in the Brothel of Saints, they ask me to lay.

That is when I state,

“I cannot survive in a brothel of Saints.”

Everyone here is made of oil paints,

Running off only if the water is holy.

I am so tired of the spirits rolling,

Knowing that I am not growing.

I thirst.

I want a wellspring to burst!

I want it to pour lavishly within my mouth,

I want it all pouring out,

Just to prove the answering of prayers.

Pour it among every single hair that I wear.

I must be bathed.

Hurry, before we are too late.

I cannot stand one more moment of black eyes,

They deceive with vile lies.

What lust they hide,

Only is worn above their clothing like pride.

Almost like gallows in disguise.

“Gallows for the good.”

They do what every demon wishes it could.

Here they bathe in the blesseds’ blood.