Beneath a shawl of midnight Silence,
a howling Blackness
where all is remade
in necromorphosis,
asleep in human remains
Worn from the stones,
elegiac word
recounting hopes
and forgotten lives,
for beneath them lies
the Dust of humans,
the Dust of dreams,
the Dust...
A coach drawn by the blackest steeds,
as befits those who've passed from Life,
will bring you to where swarm the specters
of Man's best-loved Funerals
The Laws of Flesh are here repealed:
Vigor Mortis is now the Way,
so count the black beads of your Sorrow
while you stammer your frightened prayers
Readjust your vision, see the warp in the Shadows...
there's Something wrong with the Dark:
Something that thrives on Wretchedness and Sorrow
and makes the darkness crawl
Rain-swelled clouds
blot out the sun,
damned nor'easter
chilling the Dark
Branches, sticks,
thistles, thorns,
feathers, fur,
mud and bones...
Dying ground
A Lifeless Thing of earthen heath,
seeing soil from beneath,
knows the Need to Summon flesh
to its maw
Cold blue lips frame (a) yard-wide grin
that Calls to flesh, to let it in,
and thus indulge its Yearning
come the unDawn
Roam the endless Cemetary of what once was,
(where) the Allfeeling is never truly Gone

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