Falling, sightless, the final hours have passed.
The soul becomes flightless.
The silence of the grave, the
evensong.
Bereft of form and void.
Deadlights dance in the sance obscure.
And the damned lick the black tendrils of
hastur.
Conjoined amidst the circles nine.
The prophecy of the soil and secret rites of the worm.
An ossuary of flesh amongst all
our living tombs.
Crawling, limbless, through the pale valleys displaced of time.
Our lidless eyes forward to the ever-fixed
mark.
This worm-web known as mortality.
A single, labyrinthine tier across the yawning abyss.
Whose walls are featureless and
purchase - impossible.
And so begins the litany of the lie.
Scraping the precipice toward the slough of despond.
I have found
strange purity in this oblivion.
Impending dissolution brings no pause.
Upon ashen splinters is my body - which is given for
you.
I call the vermin to their feast, and the worms to paradise.