I am not the angel child
That I so seem to be,
For my growth hath hearkened
Tell of a silent deformity.
On the dusk of an age, my calling
Beckons in the forest of the dead.
As I descend from the above, the world
Shall know a different kind of dread.
Grief, pain, despair, kill, burn...
And it all starts today with my death.
Antichrist...
Reflect upon the bleakness
Of the fragile human mind,
And the faint line between life and death
That has made us all so blind.
I am not a human
And I am not alive,
Yet mine is not the soul so black
That you seek to hold inside.
I am the Antichrist.
Christ, God...
“This suffering and all my memories
Forsaken, when I gave my name
For you to live in peace.
So, speak your sordid words,
And spit upon these broken hands
That have lifted you up from your knees.”
Carve it away and watch it bleed:
Of broken pieces and blood conceived.
For when you die, I’ll be whole again,
The blood of your martyrs running in my veins.
The beggars three have come tonight.
The Antichrist is coming back to life.
“I embrace this stinging.
I accept this punishment.
With dignity, I bleed for you,
And these scars, I wear with pride.”
