Thine Beginning Poem by Robert L. Bixler III

There reside’th, in thineself, a caustic evil.
One such the world hath tasted
As I tore’th at existence’s very navel;
Not would’th survived un-wasted.

Thy embittered rage tear’eth apart
All that was’t from holy start.
Hell’s inferno touch at thine finger,
So long as the cold, dark night doth linger.

Even then, I hath thine restraints.
As heavenly sun arose
Thy anger wert force to doze.
Unless, I desire’th holy complaints.

Stranger occurrence hath never
Touched the night as thy descent.
Graceful Thee wert sent to sever
Thine vicious, un-holy life at present.

Un-expectant twist of faith,
Thee begun’eth to ardor thy wraith,
And thine hollowed spirit felt love
As thy radiant beauty shone above.

Infernos of hate become’th fires of passion
Inside your angelic embrace,
And thine own burnt face
Become’th were thy worship wert fashion.

Vampirish-loving lust cannot last
Between angels and demons.
Just so, dost the spurned one cast
Thee winged beauty from his summons.

Without thy holy powers,
Thee wilted like dying flowers.
Final fires take’th thee to ashes,
And, in thy grave, thy re-birth hatches.

Phoenix to day and night,
I am to live’th on alone
With all I hath ever known.
Archangel, in thineself, raise’th to fight.