The Confines of Evil

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
It has been three years since my last confession
and in that time
I ventured into the pockets of my bruised devil.
Father, his hands were thirsty and warm, and enclosed my sight.
I was blind to power
and felt the entire world faltering,
but I was foolishly weak
and unable to move.
His songs invited demons; they tugged at my dim hair,
kissed my broken feet,
and dragged my dying heart into the depths of a lonely abyss.
In the background I was deafened by their chatter of golden trumpets
and hollow silence.
Their war cry was infinity,
their rare love only for the spare.
How trite I felt to shriek under their torment.
Death surrounded by that moment could not trace this existence
with his icy bone fingers.
His blood trickled from the lacerations upon my wrists,
cowering in the cavity of the darkest shadows,
where the moonlight gleamed against the pale dagger at our side.
I fumbled for this god and was strung upon his son's crucifix,
but to be ever so powerful,
to be the Almighty.
Concealed in a well of scarlet liquid,
my hands stretched for the light seeping into the tunnel above us.
Father, I fear that God is in Hell,
and his son was not Him.
He was a lover.