The Angels that abide, through them God speaks.
Gathering gold, credit is what I seek.
Death and destruction, Mars is where I reside.
Not worrying about whether I can fly high.
In the sky, it is red, the blood that continues to boil.
Burying the dead in the ground, the dark and wet soil.
The body then decomposes, the skin starts to spoil.
A well oiled machine that reflects from the foil.
The 1/3rd Angelic Realm that continue to be loyal.
A wurm like dragon that wraps like a coil.
In which, I must hunt, souls is what I seek.
Put em back in the bag, supposedly a God that plays for keeps.