i curse you to my Father's halls
and only He gives quarter
every step you take's a wake
His mercy - my disorder


your grave is only impact-deep
where bodies hit the floor
the mire's bugs and wild dogs
you feed them to their core


soul freed with violence and rage
the smell of blood I'm cravin
sticks and stones and broken bones
feed your flesh to my raven


not mortal shell or undead husk
escapes The End's caress
and there it looms - yes, we're all doomed
embrace to conquer Death

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 2nd of Midsummer, in the year 474 MA.