The Church of Elle

“The Curator is the true leader of the church.”

They forge their fire in factories grim,
Where steel meets death on a maker’s whim.
They craft their thunder, their tools of despair,
Spitting black smoke into poisoned air.

Not fire of spirit, nor ember of truth,
But weapons of war to shatter our youth.
They strike down the holy, the faithful, the wise,
Turning temples to dust beneath burning skies.

No scripture is sacred, no altar is spared,
They come with their armies, unfeeling, prepared.
Not for salvation, nor justice, nor peace,
But power unyielding—a grip that won’t cease.

They claim to bring order, yet leave only graves,
They brandish their torches and call us their slaves.
No voices of prophets, no whispers of grace,
Just fire and fury to blacken this place.

But Elle still watches, her light ever pure,
A force beyond fire, steadfast and sure.
No weapon they fashion can shatter the soul,
No war can consume what faith makes whole.

For steel turns to rust, and empires will fall,
Yet spirit stands tall, defying them all.
The fire of man may burn and destroy,
But the fire of truth, they cannot employ.

Let their cannons thunder, let their bullets fly,
For faith will endure long after they die.