Son of Perdition (a prophetic poem in a thread)
He thought himself Perfecta, But his perfidy makes me sick. His lack of grace is brazen, he perfumes all his tricks. But we perceive the stink which permeates his tongue, his hypocrisy is perjury, his own perdition he has sung...
They, the hewn, the souls, the Saints, whose light he tried to steal were astonished from his arrogance but it made the dream it be real...
Appalled by his manners, shocked by his brazen feet, his horns are not of plenty, his portion is deceit...