Hides beneath the Church

Is it a light, a ray from the Heavens
A memoir for priests to hide their confessions
Crusted with secrets to turn against weapons
That threatened to mass against their not saint devils.

It hides what hides himself, herself, myself
But what does it buries from thyself
Is it the secrets, the key to their wealth
Maybe souls looking for help, by their hand were expelled.

Where there are secrets, there exists a will
An unscratchable itch needing to be fulfilled
Some closet skeleton, who's ashes must be spilled
Written into history, with a feather and a quill.

To me, it lies the wind that moves their bell giants
Their tongue rasping their cheeks, sharpened with defiance
By anything that proves art against the science
A threat, if you must, to raise a batallion of riots.

Does it also lies with crosses and wine
And does it simmers darkness, or perhaps some more divine
No matters the space, the color, the design
The eyes of saints will judge you, if ever them you decline.

Nevertheless I refuse to be defined by their religion
That I adore night's creatures, instead of doves or pigeon
There's no other wanting than to know their mission
In defending the perdition in the form of sanctuary, or prison.