Clockwork of the Mechanical Heart

The doors opened and the blood poured out.
Less so than the church had allowed.
Mocked and ridiculed stood god on a blazing stair.
Not one cloth he bore and showed his all to his dear.
Instead he spoke, and speak he did of many things,
of virtue and of good old sins.
Praise he did not shun us,
he commended and saluted our beings.
Words traveled far but they were known to be fleeting.
The machines of man had opened many doors.
There they had changed our wars.
Falseness clothed in words of tongue,
pretending to be god his own.
Man by his machines bypassed his own growth,
and created god,
valued as such,
worshipped as such.
There could be none other to take that seat above us,
than the creature handmade by man.
Woven into creation to be better than the rest and guided by some otherworldly plan,
but purity of all fallen and decayed,
in some other animal it lurks again,
as we are stuck with a grim smirk,
painted by a false heart mounted upon the gears of clockwork.