Shane McKnight

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Anathematize The Sanguinary Conventicle

Cold blooded fate blinds their faith. Sanguinary
Believers on the berth of anathema.
Sect of worship as dark as the night, anathematize
We pray thee, this conventicle.
All that dissipates the joy in the air are throes
Of wasted parturition.

Death condemns our parturition,
On our shoulders we bear the brunt of this sanguinary
Gathering of soldiers, garnering throes
Of anguish. Darkening skies herald this anathema.
Delirium deglamorizes this conventicle.
The sun darkens, the moon rescinds. We pray thee anathematize.

Beneath the bloody skies at dawn, anathematize
These infidels, subject their parturition
To worthlessness, like the dearth of life in the conventicle.
Harbingers of doom celebrate pleasure in sanguinary
Rituals, marching on the path of destruction. This anathema
Silence our symphony of joy. What we play are throes.

They dispose of their trail, throes
Of orphanized creatures at the mercy of nature, anathematize
We pray thee, this anathema.
Ravaging peace as a Leviathan does its prey. Parturition
Is akin to death. Sanguinary
Sect of worship. Livid conventicle.

Soldiers of fortune baulk not in this conventicle.
Eager to change our lucid laughter to a cacophony of throes.
The vast desert is the playground of the sanguinary
Gathering of soldiers. Disheartening parturition
Has become our lot. Anathematize
We pray thee, this anathema.

Like the mountains endure the infernal depths of the sun, the anathema
Subject our bodies to stoicism, feigning courage. Conventicle
Of mercenaries revel in neutering the joys of parturition.
Gaping at hope in the skies, our throes
Of rejection fleets with the passing wind, anathematize
We pray thee, this sect of worship so sanguinary.

On the verge of anathema, our rather eloquent throes
Deepens with anguish through the conventicle, they anathematize
Our joys of parturition, this sect of worship so sanguinary.

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