Piety

Her tattoos sometimes burned,
she fought with smiles and tortured eyes,
oddly outcast among the gothic friends she loved so much,
at the moment she surrendered
to the gospel man with his seductive tongue.

Thinking holy would redeem
instead leading her into midnight's screams.
Dark was the light he shrewdly thus shine,
but only when they were alone in his chamber of thrills,
letting his righteous image turn demonic and cruel.

Now she wears that white robe each day
hiding the skin designs of his possession
that his wicked needs make her accept
in order to claim her as his special depravity's slave,
even beyond the grave if his vile threats were true.

Sunday hymns now voiced in a disciple's faithful mask --
an angel saved from hell's mouth so some would think,
discovering heavy metal music and orgies
were truly far less wicked
than what spawned from a scripture man's evil piety.