By The Angelic One

Abandoned by the divine,
Once the woes are afflicting,
The senses and swearing are smothered
By those angelic enough to taste.

A passion is in confusion,
But, a passion inhibits one
At the shoulders of the deathly one,
The one who arose from the region.

Colourful occupations resent me,
Now that death has a separate woe,
The angels of hell are upon me
Now that the days are shot in the head.