where life has never gasped before

the magic of his hands
as the flames rise
from upturned fingers
and glide along the air
to bring voice to suffering

stout tongue brandishing words
long forgotten in this age of ignorance,
words to turn and tumble the waters,
quake the oceans,
and bend the earth to soup

his face is the face of all that have stepped
before him and fell to humble knee
for but a glimpse of the surreal perceived
through his nightmare eyes

as the multitudes fall at his feet,
he brings the magic once more
to lull them back into oblivion
to serve a greater cause
and walk as the dead
have walked for countless eons since

an army of the rancid dead
to plunder the innocence
from the living,
to render the fat from
quivering bone,
to tear and tend the passions away

the magic of his hands
as he turns the air
to dust
and gleans the life from
tired stares
troubled with breath
and bound by blood

he casts a sermon from cracked lips,
willing the flesh back to life
to serve,
to be served,
to tumble in the rot,
to never falter
as the skin peals as fresh
as plucked fruit
from dying trees
and timid vine

so he stands now,
twisted spine,
cankerous mouth
shouting as spit upon
the faces that turned from him
which now serve and only serve
for the cause of debauched
blood pumping hearts

and the Devil cowers at his name,
this man with magical hands
that has come to set the birthed masses free

the demons shrink away from those fingertips
glistening with purpose and prayer
for death to come swiftly
o' so swiftly as night upon shadowed cave
where life has never gasped before