Blood of a Lamb
Blood is life
But what life does it serve
If all we ever do
Is drunken ourselves with it
We desire to make love
But what love do we make
When we desire to take love
But refuse to give in order to make?
Is a kiss a tender brush
Where two lips meet?
No, perhaps a kiss isn't
But where two souls are bound
But the souls aren't imprisoned
Unless the hands of demonic
Greed, lust, power
Sentence them and find only one of them guilty
The poor lass, somber in her pool
Drowns from her tears of grief
Dies forever a virgin
Yet had lived shamefully as a whore
As she is buried and nursed
By the mother called Death
As she is released into the wild
From her cage, for she was an animal
But nothing more than a wine
A refreshing drink of blood she was
But blood is life, isn't it?