Fog rolling in, likes of which never seen before
traveling against wind, quietly approaching the Prime
There's something within it I can't quite put my finger on
as if an infected wound gone too long without cure.

The Light would beg of you, don't let it in.

Here, now, will we be held accountable? Will we atone
for sins of the many others buried without conscious.
Is this a Fate of our own making breaking the world,
can Her sacrifice alone atone this worlds cursed souls?

So many questions linger as the night unfold.

Until dawn, we're twisted into knotted and gnarled forests.
Whilst fright condenses into a marauding unknown,
reaping its toll in the creeping darkness.
We are Nature, the festering, pestilent, decay.

Our doom conscripted, we are but the nihilists who revel in it.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 8th of Chakros, in the year 503 MA.