Whispers of the dead

Echo among the living

And resound in my head

Fighting

To be heard...


Consuming all that is life

As I bleed

From that which is Death's knife

My liquid darkness that feeds

Their forgotten souls


Trapped by mortality

I feel myself wandering

Further into the finality

Of all that is He


All death is bred from life

Bound neither to goodness or evil

But rife with strife

His neverending cycle, primeval

As I sacrifice myself to Him...





Penned by my hand on the 13th of Scarlatan, in the year 359 AF.