Secondhand Saint.

Soul drinker at a table for glasses,
down like whiskey demons and lime.
Bitter taste, raptured grace,
only forty ounces to the divine.

A thousand breaths inhaled in vain.
Swallow the curse of your messiah's name.
Tooth and nail, eyes and tongues,
Here is your barbed cross to claim.

Reaper of saints, reaper of remorse
Archangel of death, weaver of mercy,
deliver your omens on crystalline razors
the saviors words are your decree.

Disposition of the human soul,
who is anchored down to save?
As you play savior to the damned,
and hide in their infernal plane.

Azrael, the secondhand saint,
an outcast of Heaven's grace.
Your name rings unspoken, the choirs sing mute,
they've long forgotten your tainted face.

You'll ascend to heaven's door,
without the taste of death in your mouth.
Swallow that taste, savor the grace,
of knowing that you shall be

last to die.