In the wan light of washed out daybreak infinity stretches
And elongates its shape, pulling the sphere it encompasses on a
Deathmarch towards nothing. What will it endeavor but to
Continue, perpetual, towards the absent planes of day?

At last, to wash ashore on the dreamless beach of night,
to cast off the fetters of day and within the serene coffin
Allow a procession of pale horses and fragile black crepe
to slowly creep through the forest of my mind. Oh, corporeal
matter, to sing so to silence.

Each night, sate yourself on the hearts of children,
and shroud yourselves in the color of your glorious element,
Be the thing that other fear, and in your wisdom, grow.



Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Slyphian, in the year 161 MA.