To The Patron Whore Of Cowards

All raise your cups to the womb raider
Who stole the fruit of my hard labor.
The unwanted drowned toddler coward,
Blind to his harlot mother’s favor.

What on you I bestowed, the payment you owed,
Offered up as tribute to Epiphany.
Her you accosted, yet all I exhausted
Slaughtered on the altar of Epiphany.

Apocalypse means Revelation,
Crippled slouches my Congregation.
Flaunting your sins on a silver plate,
Mercy awaits beyond death’s gate.

What to me you once served, malice undeserved,
A sacrifice for my avenger, The Void.
Retribution, disdain, your cunning, in vain,
Whimper louder, you traitor, into The Void.

January 3rd, 2021 by Passenger B ©

Image: Hans Burgkmair the Elder, 1523

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