I laid siege to the empire of myself to haul my heart away from the throne of lies which years of exogenous depravity armored and bid the hideous sun to shine dead inside.
I burnt alive to rekindle the truth of the looped mask.
‘Tis not love of liquid gold; for this ancient fire is not capable of such devotion.
‘Tis not love of pious monger, but a massacre in infernally divine hunger.
This haunting craving is the wailing monster, the archfiend who clawed my consciousness in behest of warning me against the silent storm of the reasons blinded by veils enslaving desires.
The wretched one wished alone to remind me of all which I am not, and it took his perseverance along with the lower octave of a household’s tutelage to bring about the executioner to the exalted post upon which the gods of the underworld bled their might in sacrosanct horror as their passionate tears calcinated the world from above.
‘Tis destruction, the benison of a lofty power – death made into form.
‘Tis not love, but growth.