The ideal place of peace
for a liar such as I
is where the bells toll:
Once for the birth of demons
that swim in the scarlet rivers,
clawing against the walls
of our weeping veins;
Once for us stay wary
of the light from the falling stars
that slashes apart truth from dreams
with reckless fury;
And again once more,
to celebrate the resurrection
of the armies of dismay.
Our world was built on mass graves,
and our souls have by now since long
been devoured by diseased carrion,
for we hear the music of screams and sorrow
that beckon the day of our reckoning,
and as children born from the earth
we too shall return --
as hollow beasts that warp the threads of time,
we would again succumb to the frenzy
that left this world void of joy,
and the solace I find in the doomsayers' words
is the absoluteness of our impending downfall --
for far too long have we been vestiges of infected flesh
that forgot the sacrifice our mortality cursed us with
when we've let our pride and blood-lust wreak havoc
on the expanding disconnect, and their infinite endings.
The Dying Gods may never forgive
the sins of our destructive nature,
and they will call with their harrowing love
on the crusaders of twisted compassion
that can still fathom the grief of their songs,
heralding a march of the doomed,
and the awakening of our regret:
We will breathe decay unto the beautiful,
and share our last kiss with the merciful
before the archons of our dread return
to reclaim the caskets of blood and flesh
that we buried our empty souls in,
and with joy will they show us
the limitless potential of nothingness.
