"Cult 37 (Poem)" by Amy ´Insom´ Downum

                    Cult 37     

   Open the old oak door,

   And inside you will find-

   All the poor little souls,

   That careless people have left behind.

   Two little girls,

   Each one uncertain of their fate.

   Each one sad, lonely,

   And consumed by hate.

   A thin, balding man-

   Eyes consumed by darkness,

   Looks through empty black holes…

   At this mess, at all of this…

   This is the Cult,

   Cult number 37-

   All these people are lost,

   Lost on their way to Heaven…

   I am one of these poor souls,

   Lost on my way to heaven.

   I am part of this Cult,

   Cult number 37.

   Love did this to them,

   Love tortured their soul,

   It turned them to stone,

   Left them with no place to go.

   A song of the unsung,

   A ballad of the torn.

   A heart that still weeps,

   Feet tired and worn.

   In this small room,

   Where distress mingles with despair,

   Behind the oak door,

   In the stale, stagnant air.

   Are the voices of the forgotten.

   The forgotten residents of Cult 37.

   That got terribly lost,

   Lost on their way to Heaven.