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In coldness of my dark bowel a yell after mercilessness bequeaths a trace of eternal destruction to my decency |
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Uneven throbbing shadowfire streams with raised melancholy through twisted channels of my forbode grief |
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In the black storms of my mental agony the deliverance ripens in form of a godless dusk |
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The faceless ancient grasps with stony miming into the cradle of mercy and severs the blood stained flag |
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But still it seems to me that the lightbringer spreads a shining shroud over the shadow being of an owl which died in chains |
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As the rock in me bursts asunder the round dance of the colouring grows up in my twilight |
