Fall moon, your cries are lost.
Savage be the land.
Where j**els of midnight, hide.
Beyond the distant blue.
Un-wrought silver gleams, red stained the embers ornaments.
Dark gifts, for that prisoner of sorrow, adorn the chambers, of his castle of PAIN!
There he dwells, master, of the flesh throne, carved by the cunning, of ancient hands.
Hollow curses, from some disciples burst, as desire is inflicted.
Cruel and carnal!
Jagged lust, thrust upon the back of beasts.
Ivory incisors, drag mouths to flesh in basic thirst, and the drums roll
As his eyes grow weak for some new suffering.
Still slit with the venom of the wet wall.
And the creature who wore thorns in her hair.
A man with all that can be crushed, while wine and morality coils in the cup.
When heather and hazel, burnt in the forests of his night
and her lips bled a deeper treachery, than a berry d**h.
Now she crawls and claws and run with the animal of the Storm,
and he in his tyranny is alone.
Rich decorum, cound never revive.
The touch that made his body gla**.
Now as the earth creeps.
And grows.
And sleeps.
She weeps.
With banishment as her all.
Here.
All we observe and all we endure,
Is pure!