Entropy

We are the void, the listless hollow. Hot, empty, pitted stones. Dancing in the song of Lilith's revenge, we are her sweetless perpetual mourn. We are the blood down the thighs of that sacrificial mother, her mistaken purged birth. A consecration of rotten semen and late desires carved in stone fog. We trace our fate in the lines of a dead man's face through the eye of his executioner. And our magic is great; for just as he, we see truth in our mechanisms as a child does in his imaginary playmate. This life is comedy, laughing, with his bone-white fingers growing tired around our necks. Giving us his sweet, plagued breath, ever reminding us of our joyless folly: We shall live as fiending witches and die by our devices greater as kings, rotting in our post-mortem excrement. Sinking into the earth splayed in the decadence of the evolving colors of our dead flesh. Our beautiful ode to squalor.