As if past ghosts dwelt still
in the willful caverns evergreen
to sanctify a heart
with the glacial touch of sleep.
Alas! Does the weeping trickle
through the breathing whim
of promising lands which,
by masquerade aside, exonerate
the uncanny aberrant.
And by art and fervent sacrifice
of briny diamonds in the clash,
does the wisdom of the fool
parades before the fire sword
of heretical command.
The wolf, the shadow, and the moon.
Stigma hominum befogs the mirror
of Exalted Harmony,
yet the glowing markings of pathwork
will always tune the melody of salvation
were one to know how to listen.