#satanism #Satanicphilosophy #occultism #lefthandpath

I do not carry
I tear.
I do not worship
I claw at sanctity
until it crumbles to ash without grace.

The saints look,
but they do not see.
Their heaven - made of bricks.
Their salvation - made of fear.
Their love - made of thorns.

But I want a language before language,
a dark voice before the light,
I want a howl that never learned to pray.

I am the death of dogma.
The sin that will not kneel.
The dark hand on the neck of the invisible god.

There is no room in me for faith.
Only smoke.
And hunger.
And freedom that cannot be lifted
without soiling your hands.