Nameless, black
Void and choice-less
Surrendered to night,
Full of dark
Wanting nothing,
Now all is empty
Free to take up any chain
Any desire that one might wish for
No desire, no restriction
No thirst for servitude
There is only the vexing slumber,
Hunger for the fat of a new kill
Is somehow become as a stranger
Wandering, wanton hex
A nubile delving into psionic prisms
Load the chamber
With hollow shells of the dead
Projected visions of delirium
Angelic chasms
Frightful clamoring in the cranium
Call back the dogs
And let them sleep,
For the dawn will soon enough
Overtake their prey
That tender light, shredding matter
Rending garment and flesh
Quite succinctly
No need of drummers
To time the pulse of this tune
The rhythm of it,
A vacillating pendulum,
Lo, it is even without the ability
To stray from its precision
The striker upon the cylinder
Is the pointing, bony finger of
The hand of death herself
The hammer that clangs the bell
Is the Mother of Night, incarnate
The femurs of a thousand heros
Beating against the tanned hides
Of the children of the same
Her crooked digit,
A culminating of perpetual cycle…
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity,
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity,
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity,
A beat all too well pounded into the
Collective memory,
Burned into a hive mind,
Fallen into cerebral pits of
“Never before”,
We have at last, found the true past
It is even more horrid and shameful
Than we feared
It is full of monsters,
It is full of us
© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell, Magus
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Kevin Trent Boswell 