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Medius of Lilith

Bats are your servants,
The mice and rats, your ladies in waiting
Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, King, Foe
He is yours, the attentive prince,
Your castle is built upon corpses,
Your garden the ruins of civilization,
Your silk dresses and delicate jewels of bone, were weaved by the bone thin fingers of the furies,
Who wail and scream and cry and beg
"What we know of the future,"
They sob
"Is the same we know of the past!"
Deftly, you turn a cold shoulder,
One practiced so carefully in your pretty little mirror
And with a waggle of those clawed fingers that men have sinned for,
Lived and died for
That Lucifer claimed as his own
I rest my weary head on those fingers,
Those hands, that have killed, sinned
And I find solace in her frigid embrace
And I sleep,
Oh lord,
Do I sleep, in comfort and perfect peace

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