The Son of Gory

And he went flying through the thorns of addictive agony,
and it tore and skewered him but oh the delectation of pain refuses to vanish,
Desert him you callous one, the spirit of bliss awaits,
drunk on the dubious ecstasy of the barren lands, how and what he draws.
When did he turn into this corpse of living immorality,
degenerate do people call him and it might still be a euphemism.

Choking on the tears that burn his pipes of wind,
he bellows in the highest of registers, beseeching eternal sleep
but pleadings of the subdued have and will remain unheard
and what remains are the cries that last and resonate for ever.
the son of gory shall remain unscathed , etched in stone that is,
for what they call abode of the damned , that is exactly where he dwells.