Glorious God Of Death
© Surazeus
2018 02 28
When someone starts shooting bullets of hate
we duck down under our desks without books
and text our mothers and best friends our love
in case the silver bullets pierce our hearts.
Then from the bright rubescent star she flies,
the scorpion queen with flutes of sorcery,
who leads us from our high school under siege
to dance upon the wild Bohemian beach.
I cry to Betelgeuse my mystic word
in flight to groves whence lustrous rivers flash
and hide behind cathedral wall of fear
in jeweled gloom where purple lilacs bloom.
What deathless spark of love inside our hearts
inspires our journey to the Promised Land
when, waving banners of the bleeding cross,
we march against the blind merchants of death.
Instead of crosses, where the mute messiah
hangs crucified to save us all from guilt,
we wear assault rifles on silver chains
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
The actor prancing on the stage of fame,
who shot the tyrant in back of his head,
declares that he would run into the school
and face the killer with brave hands of faith.
Heart pounding at the howl of frightened wolves,
I run through labyrinth of bitter words
accusing me of faking my own death
in staged assault to make lawmakers act.
When faceless kings rule factories of death
the children, who break free from stifling fear,
follow Liberty waving flag of truth
to march in revolution of the mind.
From the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
Ariel breaks free from silence of despair
and stands before the angry crowd at noon
to preach against the tyrant of the gun.
Wearing assault rifles on silver chains,
we file into the grand Church of the Gun,
singing hymns of our right to self-defense,
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
So when I rise from horror of my death
I face the angry boy who shoots the gun
and feel a thousand bullets blast my brain
for I am every child who bleeds to death.
Strewn high upon the fenced-in White House lawn
the victims of gun violence howl in rage,
ten million zombies risen from the dead,
who sing, we are the champions of the world.
I carve the name of every person killed
on black marble memorial to the dead
to celebrate our endless civil war
with blood staining hands of America.
I see their faces on the swelling clouds,
each man and woman blasted by the bullet
that splatters their blood on the thirsty Earth
so flowers blossom from forgotten names.
Come join us all in the Church of the Gun
and kneel before the Assault Rifle God,
who demands murdered sacrifice each day,
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
We hide in the library among books,
we hide in our classrooms behind locked doors,
and we hide in thoughts and prayers you all send,
but still he shoots everyone in the head.
When the wizard first invented gunpowder,
mixing sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal,
he molded hollow tube from iron metal
and fired the silver bullet of desire.
The wizard held the iron tube in his hand
and faced the tyrant with the flashing sword
to fire the bullet with the flash of flame
that blasted off his head to free the world.
For eight hundred years angry men with guns
have blasted each other in violent wars
that wash our spinning world in seas of blood
over who will play God of our whole world.
The stars and stripes dripping innocent blood
waves proudly over the Church of the Gun
where preachers lead in solemn thoughts and prayers
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
© Surazeus
2018 02 28
When someone starts shooting bullets of hate
we duck down under our desks without books
and text our mothers and best friends our love
in case the silver bullets pierce our hearts.
Then from the bright rubescent star she flies,
the scorpion queen with flutes of sorcery,
who leads us from our high school under siege
to dance upon the wild Bohemian beach.
I cry to Betelgeuse my mystic word
in flight to groves whence lustrous rivers flash
and hide behind cathedral wall of fear
in jeweled gloom where purple lilacs bloom.
What deathless spark of love inside our hearts
inspires our journey to the Promised Land
when, waving banners of the bleeding cross,
we march against the blind merchants of death.
Instead of crosses, where the mute messiah
hangs crucified to save us all from guilt,
we wear assault rifles on silver chains
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
The actor prancing on the stage of fame,
who shot the tyrant in back of his head,
declares that he would run into the school
and face the killer with brave hands of faith.
Heart pounding at the howl of frightened wolves,
I run through labyrinth of bitter words
accusing me of faking my own death
in staged assault to make lawmakers act.
When faceless kings rule factories of death
the children, who break free from stifling fear,
follow Liberty waving flag of truth
to march in revolution of the mind.
From the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil
Ariel breaks free from silence of despair
and stands before the angry crowd at noon
to preach against the tyrant of the gun.
Wearing assault rifles on silver chains,
we file into the grand Church of the Gun,
singing hymns of our right to self-defense,
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
So when I rise from horror of my death
I face the angry boy who shoots the gun
and feel a thousand bullets blast my brain
for I am every child who bleeds to death.
Strewn high upon the fenced-in White House lawn
the victims of gun violence howl in rage,
ten million zombies risen from the dead,
who sing, we are the champions of the world.
I carve the name of every person killed
on black marble memorial to the dead
to celebrate our endless civil war
with blood staining hands of America.
I see their faces on the swelling clouds,
each man and woman blasted by the bullet
that splatters their blood on the thirsty Earth
so flowers blossom from forgotten names.
Come join us all in the Church of the Gun
and kneel before the Assault Rifle God,
who demands murdered sacrifice each day,
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
We hide in the library among books,
we hide in our classrooms behind locked doors,
and we hide in thoughts and prayers you all send,
but still he shoots everyone in the head.
When the wizard first invented gunpowder,
mixing sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal,
he molded hollow tube from iron metal
and fired the silver bullet of desire.
The wizard held the iron tube in his hand
and faced the tyrant with the flashing sword
to fire the bullet with the flash of flame
that blasted off his head to free the world.
For eight hundred years angry men with guns
have blasted each other in violent wars
that wash our spinning world in seas of blood
over who will play God of our whole world.
The stars and stripes dripping innocent blood
waves proudly over the Church of the Gun
where preachers lead in solemn thoughts and prayers
to worship the Glorious God of Death.
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