The Sermon on the Mount

Written word for word in bright red blood
are the accounts of claws caked in mud
Ruby wet lips recite the mantra from his skin
articulate words that tells how it will begin
Soft echoes of footfalls sound from the grass
Pilgrims that braved time to hear his Mass

The Mass,
Attended by those with hidden faces.
On the grass,
They congregate and infest the hidden places.

A sermon taught by a pale-faced priest
dressed in black with hopes long deceased
he carries a silver cased cross of his own
they say that in his sleep he does groan
that he dreams of days long passed to memory
that he sighs deeply and cries when in revery.

Don't you worry,
dry your bleary eyes,
In your fury,
You refused your lies.

His broken form ascends the stairs
His blue gaze burns and flares
"Dull, dull your empirical eye!"
He preaches, his voice rising high.
His warning stretches out from the pulpit,
His hand raises that terrible knife to dull it,

Dull it,
From your eyes, he would rip the clouded sight
Mull it,
It's a weapon against his brand of dark, his light.

Long ago, he was but a machine,
whose master was sullen and mean,
he whispered evils to the mechanical boy,
professing he was his own wind-up toy
While the master never saw light again
He left the mechanical boy a broken man.

Pieces crumbling,
His body stardust in a solar breeze
Fingers fumbling,
to catch a branch from a stellar tree.

Several times, he lost himself
A crippled doll on a shelf
whose porcelain body was repaired
for unfortunately poor it faired
under the weight and awesome force
of the All-mighty, his divine power source

He cried,
out to the night.
He died,
to bear all His might.