In nomine Christi…

Come to me, whispers death.

 

His fingers are coiled around your wet and bloodied oesophagus.

Tightening.

Threatening.

 

Inch by inch.

 

Come to me, whispers death. Ominous and black in the distance.

I have more than your soul can even begin to desire. 

I have finality. I have the everlasting completion. 

I have all the answers.

 

His saliva trickles down your throat, soaking your anxiety in boiling nectar.

 

Inch

by inch.

 

Are you diabolical or divine? he asks.

What is the flavour of your faith?

Come to me, and there will never be pain.

 

There will never be the suffocating need to be justified.  

 

Walk along the path of the setting sun, into the blackening sky, 

enter through the glorious gates.

Into the arms of faithful angels and weeping children, 

where the pain of loneliness will cease.

 

 

Come to me, and I will pleasure you

Inch, by inch.