He would rise triumphant

All done up

On a plume of raven wings

Trafficking with sycophants

Sharing his cup

Amidst other graver things



Alchemists and sorcerers stitched his head

With the stench of pitch and myrrh



The devout faded out but the pagan remained

The candles burnt low and still nothing came

Bearing golden secrets from a cold malevolent race



He would have his demon!

He would have his vice!

All save his soul was up for sacrifice!

Despite their raising not a single hair

Everything stank of witchcraft there



From the stained chapel to the statued lawn

In Caprineum on the lake

To the still lit crypts and the slit of dawn

Sliding down the towers, it all smelt fake



He needed answers not advice

Intending to devise

A lengthy train of torture for the fool

Who thought a seance would suffice

Or sighted, furred in dragonflies

The signature of Satan on a wall



Sweetest Maleficia



Planchette to Blanchet, from ghosts to a priest

Returning with a spider for the poisonous feast

The Italian astrologer Prelati, spinning sin



His fingertips were scented with

The tears from seraphim cheeks

Part glamor and a hammer

Cadaverous and glib



He would have his demon!

He would have his gold!

Out of control Gilles' soul was sold

Under mistletoe and the glistening snow

Kissing in the shadow of abandoned saviors



(From the banquet hall to the stable gates

A graveyard shift in tone

Sank upon the castle, like a papal weight

Or a deep philosophical stone)



The air was sick with trepidation

Despair and desperation

Then he fixed his covenant in blood

Now all was rich and tapestried

Fragrant wine to shitty mead

His new world opened with a claret flood



Time was right, this wretched night

To etch the circles clear again



As a labyrinth of razors led a blind man to the stars

So too Prelati brought the dark

It's name was Barron, eyes like catastrophic tar

Imbibed with fire

They fed him shredded infants on an altar full of scars



Entangled in a dream

The mirrors full of steam

He scarce could see Joan's face reflecting through



His last attempt to grasp at God

Lay blackened in a holy fog

And now there were only devils to pursue



Gilles was wrapped in a velvet spell

Of Hell and her seductions



The assassinated days as a Caesar gone by

Barron, spitting acid, as his magical guide

Lit demonic pyres where once dying embers writhed



Sweetest Maleficia