Organization: Bar-Ilan University Computing Center, Israel
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 1992 14:30:01 IST
From: <X67107@BARILVM.BITNET>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.poems
Subject: Poem4

This poem about murder rites and death in general, was inspired by
'The books of blood" by Clive Baker, the part I cannot recall

          THE SECOND SHRINE

     The second shrine is formed from filth.
     And worships there another house.
     Each comes from darkness and beneath
     A shroud of clouds with death espouse.

     Most don't dare speak the second shrine
     It has most risks, but profits few.
     And all is writ in blood mixed wine,
     As gentle as the midnight dew.

     For few dare tread before its filth
     They care not for Necropolis
     And fewer still worship with mirth
     While others mourn the venom's kiss.

     Behold Immoral mortal soul,
     And drink out of the jet lit vase.
     If dark lit madness is the goal,
     Than watch for it shall come to pass.

     The second shrine is not for YOU
     Unless to kill is your desire.
     For you will taste the coldest blue
     And dare walk through hell's fire

     Beyond the murky hatreds waits
     A darker form of all repugnance
     To know it all, just wait till late,
     Then take another on death's dance.

     The second shrine is not alone
     Nor does it lay forgotten
     It stand aloof like danger's throne
     And deaths sits on it rotten.

     There is a word inscribed above
     The upper face of this cold shrine
     To see it rise use fine foxglove
     Ground together with the wine.

     It's dammination, to be sure!
     That word is known both well and long
     From long lost nights in old Ashur
     Where blind bards sung its sanguine song.

     Today the masters oft wears suits,
     They talk with voices suave.
     Though deep as any reach their roots,
     So testify the gods above.

     No jagged knifes does hold the hand
     Or green tipped baneful darts-
     He sits far up, above the land,
     And send the death which flys and hurts.

     But like the others long before
     And since the second man was marked
     He pays for his nefarious war
     As one more soul in hell is sparked

     There're tales that only shadows know
     and some are legends far and cold
     There're words that only bones may hold
     No flesh is made so bold.

     Where lays death's own Necropolis?
     Where moans the red blood moon?
     How vapid vampire lips still kiss?
     When never comes too soon?

     The second shrine cannot be cleaned
     It can be merely rinsed
     With bloody oils its corners weaned
     Its livid letters unconvinced.

     Seek not to find the second shrine,
     Unless you seek a speedy death.
     It can be yours, for you can whine
     And curse with your last breath.

     In every house there is a shrine
     There's one in every room.
     Its shapes is simply pristine
     Its shadow rings of looming doom.

     So let all flow beneath the edge,
     And let it go if you be sage.
     The storm has eyes you cannot see-
     The second shrine you cannot flee.

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H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H A H
                       Oren THE Laughing Magican
        LAUGHING DOES TICKLE THE SOUL, THERE IS NO BETTER REASON
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