In the abysmal mirror image from below
The four armed daemon
two of it's hands straining to reach the stars
a pair of swords diagonally in the other two
Dark steel rides the fleshy canvas (of the corpse)
The soon to be sun inside his dead eyes
The moon inside his cranium
The microcosm
Around me
Spilt on the floor
In front of me
His body bent grotesquely
To form the holiest of shrines
In his eye sockets now the eternal fire burns
His foul, twisted mouth sings hymnals of praise
Carved sigils feed on his soul
Upon his heavenly carcass
We smear our saliva
Its wounds serve as resting places
For our ensnaring tongues
And his veins as our vessels
For we shall never feel drought,
Nor hunger, or anything else
As long as this altar pulsates with HIS light!
