Wriithe

This room, cold, empty
O father, failure
Forsaken but free
For hate is the house of the holy

With severed wings and a cross to burn
A fist of ash when dust is the fare
Time fleeting, the disease of life
Faith's perversion
Godless
Rise

Pages of skin turn
With the carving wind
The endless churning
Degradation
And beaten with forked tongues
Smothered in gold
Lashings of the Sun
Awaiting its fall
The fall
The fall of light
And the fear of hope
What are we without hope?

Crown of the eclipse
Wreathed, this black hole hollow
Vacant righteousness
Long live their emptiness
Swallowing the void
Inversion of being
Becoming whole revealing

Onwards - withered and worn
And the rats trail bearing gifts
Gnawing of limbs, festering vermin gods, pathetic
In worship, in wake - sepsis, seeping parched are the children
Weeping tears, as maggots fall into the well of stone hands
Broken teeth scraping mould, earned granules
Insatiable
The age of illusion
Phantasmagoria
The poison of promise
Purging from divine eyes
One last kiss

Crawling as one
Despair, a mouthing draught
Bleeding the path, serpentine
From flesh to bone
The wear of the way
Wading worth in waste
Dying, the stench to come
What was will be
And the bodies will rise

Pain is always
Our bloodletting, heart-wrenching
Writhe
Silence waits with open arms
War within, war without
To suffer is to know
To writhe is to live
Writhe