The Organist

The Organist

The church’s organist is a well-liked man
Always polite, happy and keeps every plan
Smiles at children young and olden folk he helps
A true picture of a caring man, heartfelt

But that is but the surface of an ungodly soul
Inside malice burns, like bright hot coal
Chaos’ sweet taste he already knows
And craves he more and more, to the devil’s will he bows

Behind the organ, in lofts high and deep
Demons are being wakened from their olden sleep
Shapes of black, eyes burning blue or red
Chaos is their master, chaos’ will they spread

The organist’s laugh echoes in the church
And one by one the demons forward lurch
They dance, they fly, they walk and creep
Baphomet’s promise they must keep

The organist, black cursed chalk in hand
To the altar marches and proceeds as planned
A pentagram unholy, inverted cross
The church now mourns its god’s loss

“Altar defiled, church desecrated
Burn in me, ye holy hatred!”
A parchment he unrolls and reads out loud:
“Demons, obey me here and now!”

The blackest shapes all turn to him and laugh
“The poor bastard most certainly is daft
You we don’t obey you’re but a tool
And broken tools have no use, ye fool…”

A spinning spiral, red mixed with black
To the bastard’s screams none can harken back
An eyes few blinks, short is this clash
Nothing of the organist is left, just a pile of ash

Out to the dark black demons fly
Free to holiness defy
Will they find more stupid, power-hungry men?
They surely will, time and time again…