I SEE MANKIND GROVELING BENEATH MY THRONE, YET PATIENTLY I GAZE AHEAD, FOR I KNOW THEIR END IS COMING...
The Destilled Wisdom of the Ancients
Faint light - It began to dawn,
the mourning rays were caressing,
the destilled wisdom of the Ancients,
kneeling in the seventh corner,
of this concentric circle,
raising powers at the stones:
Beyond the Spheres we know,
east of the Sun, West of the Moon,
behind the North winds, from the south ye rise...
Brazing cone of power!
Crimson key to the worlds,
of darkened twilight,
mysticism, and those beyond,
our velvet dreams...
Ye old runes of wisdom,
carved into these moonstones.
Unspoken - ritual horrors,
of demon winged gods,
who once conquered a flamming sky...
From red to a spitting black,
like horizontal hail,
white dust shimmering,
at the back of beyond.
Shining in all its' glory,
dancing amidst ye dreams.
A long time ago when inexorable time was virutally at its birth, the earth had a healthy skin. But soon followed the dawn of all kinds of plagues and pestilences. Humanity, stands out to be the greatest of all pestilences.
How long will you watch carefully until it is enough?
Is it not death the sovereign cure of human pride which thou desires? Thou knowest my name, like I know thine. Thou knowest my sadness and sorrows, like I know yours.
Oh black hooded crow, how long will you watch until the time has come? The time of the great harvest? When we spread our wings and walk majestic above the human rank and file...and slowly it moves unto the tomb.
When inexorable time stands still, the season of the great harvest is imminent...
I dreamt that, buried with my fellow clay,
Close by a common beggar's side I lay;
And as so mean an object shock'd my pride;
Thus, like a corpse of consequence, I cried:
Scoundrel be gone! and hence forth touch me not;
More manners learn , and at a distance rot.
Scoundrel then, with an haughtier tone, cried he,
Proud lump of earth, I scorn thy words and thee;
Here all are equal, now thy case is mine,
This is my rotting-place, and that is thine.
And yes indeed slowly it moves unto the tomb. A breathless corpse reduced to the ever so silent wise tongue. Death, certainly is the cure for sovereign human pride. Not knowing, not aware of that which laughs about their lousy lifes. Oh would you please burn for me? Would you please slice up your chest and bow down to embrace this bullet I have reserved for you? Oh little human why are you so insignificant? Why are there so many of you? Is it because you wish to be pawns in a great game? Ha, I laugh at that which you call life and tolerance, emotions and open minded, important and most of all yourself. In an instance I could breathe your last breath, oh would you please burn for me?....
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