The Crimson Sigil

In realms where faith bleeds into rusted mail,
Walks a procession clad in piety's veil.
Their holy writ, a tome of charcoaled ire,
Ignites a pyre in every vengeful eye.

Twisted scriptures, spun by serpents old,
Whisper of heretics in citadels of gold.
The righteous hand, adorned with crimson sigil,
Craves the blood of those who kneel to a different vigil.

From shattered idols, faces weep like rain,
As altars burn with an unholy strain.
Children, like fragile doves, are snatched in flight,
Innocence devoured by a ravenous night.

Virtue's mask cracks, revealing fangs and maw,
As piety descends into a bestial law.
Women, turned spoils in this fanatic game,
Are preyed upon to etch a twisted name.

When reason calls, they play the martyr's part,
Tears welling up from a poisoned heart.
The lamb's soft bleat turns to a monstrous roar,
As they cloak their crimes in scriptures evermore.

But behind the mask, a truth begins to creep,
A chilling darkness where their demons sleep.
For faith untempered is a savage beast,
And redemption's path lies far beyond the priest.