He'd cut himself open Plant the seeds of plague within Wear a scripture of scars Caress the acerbic gangrene Build on decay, grow upon failure Absorb rot, devour corruption Feed on ruin, crawl through the pits Gaze into gray skies, swallow the ashen ardor Tear off the eyelids, peel the skin away Coil his limbs into a breathing sculpture He would become the pallid scourge Court offender in service of loss The herald of doom comes in silence His presence revealed in trembling of history He would rise a new temple Paint its walls with refined filth Burn bricks off crushed lives Pave the road with lost forgiveness The herald of doom comes without fanfare The ashes of empires beneath his feet Bones of the fallen pulverized to dust Joined together with spit of the virtuous Hardened in boiling bile of the holy men Immersed in the unknown Tempered in a haze of sulphurous fumes He would bleed all over this stone The herald of doom comes with a promise The true believer craves change He would cast away his light and his shadow He would become one with the pallid scourge

I alone have known all shades of the horror I am the pit without sun, where blind beasts dwell I am the revenant at the very bottom of the source Never to grow weary Running on doubt Dead thoughts, dead movements, dead ideals, dead desires Beneath this world there is another, built of bone and decay Grey hell Dry Motionless Upon even rows of downfall Methodized loss Inherent ruin Residual blight For these gates need to be opened For this shell needs to be broken Ether guerilla All hail the alpha fallen Dead words, dead drives, dead passions, dead urges, dead dreams As the world above is shrinking, the one below thrives Cinder springs Ashen horizon The sarcastic grinning of gargoyles The refuge among scattered remains The temples of iron and concrete The great death The silence The roaring depths of insight The maze of severance The golden throne, abandoned The agony The strife The penance I alone have known all shades of the horror I alone have seen the rays of lost grace Residual blight A sunless pit to crawl in Ether guerilla All hail the alpha fallen

My prophecy is a nightmare, my path is a like a hedge of thorns On to the burning wastes, on to the great rift To harvest the bitter fruit and drink from the barren springs My land is roamed by worms, my teeth are gnashing A shrine of flesh that had risen, a mind that sparked above the stars Scorched by the consuming fire in the forges of the nether god Towards the noumenon Deprived of both a body and the mind that animates it The soul is petrified in a monstrous satori It is hermeticism of the abyss that has trampled it Into a blunt instrument of enlightenment Towards the noumenon, towards apocalypse A lifetime of unquenchable thirst and ravenous hunger Has carved out an devouring automata Destroyed by the bitterness Of its grievous and long-protracted punishment My cup runneth dry, my house is divided On to the burning wastes, on to the great rift A vast network of fractures, the forecourts of Sheol The night is as a garment, the face has been obscured Apex prelest, conscious nothing Axis damni, embers of pneuma Disunity, estrangement The cruelty of the other death