Her

She tells the lies of the Marxist
with satan in her heart.

A critic of everything, except her
own resentment.

She blows into the fire, summoning up
the darkness.

She sings only to the lost, while they write poetry
to the demonic.

She usurps, mocks, and curses. The white singes
and smokes ’til it turns black.

She lap dances for the unclean, she sucks but like
her pride she does not swallow.

He was shot through the throat! His voice got louder,
proliferating throughout Christendom!

Her voice will die with her, but not before her soul!

.



 



	


	





	

		
sandgrounders voice
	


	
	

		

Just the prayers of the saints that holds the kingdom together.                                Though it’s brewing. In the churches and pubs, as willow strikes the leather.





The spark lit the Sandgrounders voice, then roared the whispers of a nation.            In the raging storm through the fiery furness, a glimmer for the fearless lies at the next station. 





In this once proud Christian land, in the heat we remember. A feeling only a cry can describe.                                                                                                                                   It’s not a dream, this is our country, it’s a will to survive.                               





We’ll march on the capitol remembering every lie, masks down, banners high. The streets will thunder the Cross will fly.





 The King will cry into his prayer mat, the crown on his head will tremble.              Our master Starmer their slave, this ain’t a grain in the sand, Tommy can assemble.
















	


	







	

		
Most Blessed
	


	
	

		

O' most blessed mother of mercy,
I bow my head in shame.
For the sacrilege upon you,
and your most blessed name.

Reach for Him in heaven,
forgive me for my lies.
Pray for me most blessed,
as I apologise.

All holy mother, guid my trembling
heart along.
Truly the Theotokos. when I am weak
now keep me strong.

I'll hold the cross
as you held Him as an infant.
I'll pray, as you sang Him sound a sleep.
Know my heart is pure,
When Mother, I am weak.






	


	





	

		
For the Sake of it
	


	
	

		

With this goodbye I start,
 and think of the holy ascension.
Then I write for writings sake. 
Or the glorification of God,
the ultimate glory of man.

With the ego of Cain all around us,
 more sin than you could stand.
I stand in reverence and adoration.
In this a craft of writing.

Listen to the voice that's highest,
 or kill what you're trying to save.
With Angels and Saints,
 we love for the sake of Christ.
Writing for me a love.

As we seek the extent of the eternal,
 there's a trinity of truth.
What's built fast, dies fast,
I read to know the holy, 
 and write for writings sake.








	


	







	

		
Still Water
	


	
	

		

It caught my eye in the Autumn.
In the wonder of Winter, I stop!
Still the truth I chase.
In battle, happiness will not suffice.
What can I offer? My words? A blood sacrifice? 

Now in the weeks of the great and holy.
I see a raven perched on a mountain of skulls.
There, a closed golden door, and I feel the heat.
Offering nihilism, as a religion of my future.
Surprisingly so tempting.

Am I loosing my faith or casting it away?
In this mustum, the truth I do not taste.
Falsehood, with good intentions.
Still I knock, still a focus on the tabernacle.

I'm not educated enough to articulate
my thought process.
So each line I write in hope.

My mind knows I'm no a papist, 
my protestations lately lay quiet.
I've been scrolling the scrolls of the world.
Still, in my heart where miracles start, I believe
the word became flesh and dwelt amongst us.

Alone I pray in the candle light,
each flicker warms my soul.
Through the tears I pray. I cry until I write.
My hand and heaven in perfect harmony.

I kiss the Theotokos and the Christ child.
I think of my wife holding our first born son as a baby.

As the sword, me and her forged in flames.
The foundation of the future a hidden treasure
we've carried.
Forged with the same heavenly hands that moulded
my heart.
A heart that yearns tradition.

The bell rang, and I awoke to holy chants,
in the aroma of incense and the company of saints.
There was peace from above, a heavenly coming together.

It never forced itself upon me,
I searched it, I knocked, it answered.

We worshiped. And together, we discovered orthodoxy.