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Beneath a shawl of midnight silence |
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A howling blackness |
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Where all is remade in necromorphosis |
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Asleep in human remains |
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Worn from the stones |
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Elegiac words |
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Recounting hopes |
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And forgotten lives |
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For beneath them lies |
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The dust of humans |
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The dust of dreams |
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The dust... |
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A coach drawn by the blackest steeds |
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As befits those who've passed from life |
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Will bring you to where swarm the specters |
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Of man's best-loved funerals |
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The laws of flesh are here repealed: |
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Vigor mortis is now on the way |
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So count the black beads of your sorrow |
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While you stammer your frightened prayers |
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Readjust your vision, see the warp in the shadows... |
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There's something wrong with the dark: |
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Something that thrives on wretchedness and sorrow |
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And makes the darkness crawl |
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Rain-swelled clouds |
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Blot out the sun |
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Damned nor'easter |
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Chilling the dark |
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Branches, sticks |
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Thistles, thorns |
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Feathers, fur |
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Mud and bones... |
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Dying ground |
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A lifeless thing of earthen heath |
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Seeing soil from beneath |
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Knows the need to summon flesh |
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To its maw |
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Cold blue lips frame (a) yard-wide grin |
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That calls to flesh, to let it in |
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And thus indulge its yearning |
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Come the unDawn |
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Roam the endless cemetery of what once was |
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(where) the Allfeeling is never truly gone |
