Death Worshipers

                                                  There is an altar rising from the abyss,
                                                  Not of wood or stone,
                                                  But of skulls,
                                                  Of ghosts, beauty painted demons,
                                                  Young and old,
                                                  Women and men,
                                                  They all fall before this altar,
                                                  Bending their faces low to the ground,
                                                  Drinking blood.

                                                  Repulsive?
                                                  To many, surprisingly, no,
                                                  Drinking blood is called romantic,
                                                  Skulls on T-shirts and hanging from dozens of
                                                  Ear lobes,
                                                  Video games and books for surviving the
                                                  Zombie apocalypse,
                                                  Racing in coffins. 
                                                  All worn like costumes,
                                                  Then they dance round and round the
                                                  Dismal altar,
                                                  Rattling their hands and wailing,
                                                  They're death worshipers.

                                                  I wonder oh I wonder,
                                                  Do they define it?
                                                  Death the devil's work,
                                                  Death the gate,
                                                  Some to heaven and others to burning
                                                  Eternal hell.
                                                  If they did would they idolize?
                                                  Would they kiss the feet of the grim reaper?

                                                  The sun rises,
                                                  The death shrouded worshipers flee,
                                                  Back to the darkness.
                                                  Don't follow!
                                                  Turn to the light!


                                                                                  E.J. Norris