From the ruined chapels
The burned out monasteries
The forsaken cathedrals

The damned march
Under the sun and moon
Ice and fire

Cold and pale flesh
Bloodshot and tired eyes
Ringed of the darkest black
Mouths dripping red

Cursed and eternal
Never tiring

To seek out the pure
The chaste and holy
To be slain in their sleep
To be burned at dawn

Agents of the end
Not the light or the dark
But the void they feed

Filling their stomachs
With the flesh of the living
Wetting their lips
With the blood of the dieing

Forgiveness isn't theirs to give.

by tiyler durden

Comments (2)

I know ur gonna hate me this, but spelling is a major point of writing poetry. No matter how enrapturing the poem, if you misspell a word (dieing should be dying) , their gonna focus on that error, instead of the beauty and truth of the poem. Other than that, excellent poem. Well formed, gorily detailed, and darkly intriguing to the utmost extent. congrats, keep writing; -)
Very Deep Tiyler.Almost like a vampires story. Patricia