Russ von Ohlhausen

Rookie - 0 Points (28 June 1970 / USA)

Drink My Sin - Poem by Russ von Ohlhausen

We feast with the Devil, on the corpses of angels
served by demons at a banquet thrown by God.

We bathe in the depths of the Devil's bowels.
God watches the scene, then laughs and howls,
He turns to slave those who plow the Mire.
His hand so seeds the Hellion Fire.
Waking dead, all souls are lost.
Adrift, Dusk's Horizon we have just Crossed.
Upside down the ship is tossed.

Before the helm, mankind does kneel,
A living angel does man the wheel.
The Heaven is the deck and Earth its sky.
All reflection in the Devil’s eye.
Unholy sails fill with the gust of Stars,
We ride the currents with lust of Mars.

Retch in the galley of this Vessel cursed.
Here 'Peace' a word that's merely versed.
Scales from the backs of the skeleton Fish.
Demons swarm to prepare the dish.
Our flesh we flail and blood we waste.
We serve ourselves and savor the taste.
Eyes burned out, we choose not see.
What Man's cruel heart has done to me.

The time is NOW to gain our sense!
The Ram rots, the Air is filled with offense,
The Lamb's fleece with filth is filled,
Thorny seeds sown by God, then Devil tilled.
Damned be those, this story swallowed.
Leave the path our fathers followed.
To HELL we've gone!
The Night does come.
Man must question: 'What is thy Will? '
Search for peace, though never still.

The Sea froths and churns
And soon so soured Age does turn.
Wind blows this Storm to drown and cleanse,
To kill the Beast and wash our Sins.
The Peak, to skyward Sea, has crumbled
Now in its depths, the rocks have tumbled.
Sun in the West dances on the wave,
Wind of the East blows the Storm to save.

Old Lion's reign, last hours draw near.
The Jar is spilt to drench the fear.
Moon rises to rest, what the Sun has scorched.
We've made our meal, of Angels torched,
Devour their souls, to Hell we send.
A banquet of Demons, we do attend,
With Death and Dark, I am a Ghost
We await the arrival of our Host.

Darkness sets; floating far from land.
We eat this meal, by the Devil's hand.
He feeds with us, at our Right side.
At God's broken table we all abide.

The Beast must die so we may dine.
Man's its meat, his Blood the Wine.
Friday's Feast is almost done
Sabbath's morn is near begun.
We engorge our gut, and drink the putrid muck,
But just then, I realize the jagged Rocks we've struck,
This Last Sup of anguish we do freely share.
To this no man really seems to care:
Down below, in our hull grows the gaping rip,
We've been deceived and now fouled our only ship
Immersed in Time, we slowly drown
All the Men are going down.

Tip of the Horn, still many a mile.
With God I laugh and simply smile.
Now beneath the wave of this Blood Sea that I've fallen in,
I shut my eyes, with no complaint then I drink my Sin.

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, January 31, 2009

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