They become molded into the sacred
granite that shines like gold
as you once did.
And sometimes still do
when lips hit the liquors cold.
Voices; they sing your praise
With some black bruised knees
And tears streaming down
each withered face
and glows in some neon light’s ring.
Take that steel coated chalice,
cradling crimson like it’s something
To have, to hold
only when it’s cold outside.
But drink it up like it’s salvation
Because he gave it to you.
He gave only half of him,
but took all of you.
To sacrifice, another piece
to add to his collection, gathering dust
on a shrine.