Vocal Malady Poem by raymond letsitsa

I have heard the voice
of him who is crowned with white glory
hidden behind the light
of understanding like a mystery
The morning star like satan but he brings light not darkness
the utterance of demonic poetry
That engulf the heathen in
a cloak of wolves
while they cry out in goat
like voices
Life neglects you in the
midst of hell and never
gives you choices
His women had black wings
and wore no clothing nor had they any weave
Their pagan god was a mystery
so they hid his face while he grieved
Mourner of souls and the replenishers of flesh
exposed our inner man
and had us drunk like a pub owner
The god of life was a woman
they knew not how to satisfy his urges
So with wrath she spat his flame from the skies and had them wishing they were home
And secretly he came the second time as Baphomet and pulled many heathens to hell
Untold stories were no comprehension to man
so
her stories they cannot tell