It began as an ache
in the flesh of the innocent.
A thirst quenched
not by the juice, but by the fruit.
Ungrateful are those who feed off of your pain.
Let it not be nourishment, but a plague
that refuses them rest upon death.
May the melodious tunes of harps
spill forth blood from the sinner’s ears.
Let them wander with gaping mouths
suffering the intelligible screams of one another
and the cacophonous teasing
from the beating wings of angels.
Be not alarmed little one,
you will remain unscathed.
Those diseases spread
through the sin juice
and meshed skin cloaks
bring you no harm.
Still, doomed are all
deceived by promise.