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I’m nothing but a shadow roaming

Aimlessly surfacing the earth,

A floating mass of wasted ruin

Carried offshore by currents of the deep.

The wooden block on scaffolds

With lust for dark red blood,

The hanging rope that down low flutters

Above the shadow of the hanged.

I am a candle in the sky of morning

That on the firmament goes pop,

I have no joy, I owe no merit.

I am Azrael, prophet of death.

Attuned to pain and sorrow,

I’m sinfully submitted to the nude

An infant glued to anguish and tormention,

Thriving on venom, not on wholesome food.

I am the vox clamantis in deserto,

And I can sense the hiss of snakes around

As I say hail to days of resurrection

In dry chants of funeral drums.