The man is cornered against a space. To the outside his options are numerous; to him it is the demons way or death like liquid decay. The saint needs forewarning to take the reins with clear sight. He cannot beat the beast on bramble wings, a golden soul prevails in all, but blood and thorns and bramble awns are faster way to fight with scorn. The saint is slow; the demon fast, their battle for this man won’t last. Fear and anger enact the right, the summoned scorns away all light, the right, the wrong, the left, the good, nestled in his thorny wood, they cannot hurt his boiling blood. Attack and roar away the foes, pay no heed to rational calls. Hurt them, hurt them, swing that axe, how dare they tell us white’s not black! We’ll make them see man you and me, the saints a liar, too many is three. A golden shoulder passes by; the phantom walls dissolve to sky. I am here now, we are good. The demon listens crying blood. A golden voice as slow as he, the trio formed, the saint makes three.
The Hole Filled Trinity.