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For the Sons of Belial
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I am of the Sons of Belial, blown with insolence and wine.
But I shall not drink from the cup of forgiveness,
Nor shall Thou from Mine.
I am of the Sons of Belial, and the hot embrace
Of crimson lost washes not these eyes of ire
And cannot cool my air or break the Oaths
That I attest.
I am of the Sons of Belial, thrown from the seat
Of Perdition to prowl the Earth in hunger's fire.
And when I am satiated, shall I there
Again return -- from eternal rest.
I am of the Sons of Belial, winged seeker
Of the Highest Realm, condemned at birth
For ambitious aim and unredeemed
To the final smoking breath.
I am of the Sons of Belial, never shall I sleep
Behind my death. For the lure of victory
Yet enflames my fancy's helm
And smolders from the grave.
I am of the Sons of Belial, blown with insolence and wine,
I shall not want and shall not keep
And shall not drink, except
To witness darkness shine.
-- Ken Gage ©1999
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