Saint Peter your Cloak
Black as ashen oak,
Withdrawn from the Closet
Your Chamber of Secret.
In twilight
That seeks to burn the castle
Of a dozen archaic apostle
St. Peter you'll and shall take flight
Ala-Thanatos with his Scythe.
O Rocky, O Rocky!
O Peter, O Peter!
Do you hide behind
The whiteness of your kind?
For you have been the rock
From which the kingdom cropped.
Are you merely a saint?
Or an Angel jet black?
Are you the escort of Death?
Or are you death?
Do you have a heart as rock as you are?
Or do you even have a heart?
Babysit the Candle light,
Make sure it gleams bright,
For when it turns faint
Scorn you for spilling glum paint.
Saint Peter
Can I ask?
Are you death?
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