“…forged by death…”
Lurid rumours reach our ears; of a crown so dismal,
stowed away within the cavities of this world
– sealed behind emerald gates
– claimed by a thronekeeper wrapped in wither…
Far beyond oblivion’s shores
we have ventured in search of the chasm
and along the spine of earth lie our trails,
looking forlorn in the light of the moon…
and here it towers: the grandiose entrance to secrecy
bearing marks of deeds unknown…
“Open thy gate! We have cometh to cleanse The Withered One!”
The serpentine pathway sprawls
down towards the abyssic palace of dysphoric grandeur
Looking ever more forlorn, our trails riddle the soil
Another few of thousands to endure
the atrocities of breeding the offspring of the fermented
With cleansing in mind we tread through the castle gate
A vast hall, shrouded in miasmic fog leaves our eyes dreary
Desanctified upon arrival, we are nothing more
than taints of shame within this house of pain!
…and from His throne,
the Majesty beckons, unworthy of His crown
Here are no seeds of doubt,
a totality of tyranny is sure to prevail,
spewing forth its demented sperm into the chalice
of humanity’s blissful ignorance of what the future holds
In the cavernous depths wherein they swallow the sun,
echo the lost prophecies’ deploring sound
of the abhorrent futures that lie in plain sight,
obstructed by our worthless lives…