My impurities she summoned forth

without giving thought much,

or giving ear to such a foolish matter I could attend alone.

The very thought of this place is enough to make my blood boil.



‘Tis but an insult to all of those who, in flames, their hearts burn –

stone-cold killer whose hunger only soars.

O, but it shall die ere dawn

in the crimson wings of odium

where the lost are awake and longing for home.

It shall dim by the sweet darkness of the ancient ones

who are weary at bone and core,

or rather by the poison we breathe that, away, will not go.

We are dead!

Dead and gone!

For even though we breathe,

nothing we are but putrid corpse.

And here I lie,

and here I cry,

and here I laugh.

Soon there shall be nothing left but the foul memory

that so feeble shall become.

The universe shall swallow it

and refuse to talk for eternities to come.

I charge thee!

Release me or I will rip thy core with the most excruciating touch!

I am the ripper who imbibeth from thy strength, enthralled.

Thy wrath is invigorating and darling like a newborn in cradle.

Tell me, dear,

why his glow dost thou shadow?

Thou wert free and wild, o pretty child.

These Cimmerian thoughts,

kings of bloodfest that rejoice in sorrowed moan,

writhe in pain to sing a song.

Let the moon be witness of our deranged status,

and surrender thyself to my being hollow.

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