O old Gods who wait in morrow, let me shine in sacred sorrow
I proffer, and offer, my marrow, bone, flesh, to thine altar borne,
lone in meeting, only fleeting, silent here for duty sworn
My old Gods who sit in waiting, might I power just to borrow?
Only briefly you must loan me the magic to sunder torn.
Weak and trembl’ng, weak to muster, I sought courage, but I crumble,
at the sight of just thy vision, for to me seeming e’er unseen
naught to know but thy own master ‘til I patient, sorely blunder
wondering if fear has stolen me to thine own sacred meadow
when suddenly, fervently see thine true shape and face and form and
terrible dreams enter my soul e’er to stay and e’er to fecund
for death I prefer to understanding the truth our Gods have shunned.

Yet little more did I then speak among the dead, among the meek,
falling towards an abyss so deep that makes my heart and soul weep
dying truly like a phantom lurking in the shallows creep
and yet falling ever faster and so overwhelmed by deep
my eyes and ears saw nothing and hear nothing, not a leap
from the darkness that consumed me e’er more did I fail to seek
that which cannot only reap the dead and tear them ‘til they so reek
so sharp and pointed so it was even I could witness and speak
“Who have I wronged in this place so awful that I am gaoled oblique?
Yet can still think and ponder the widow’s scream and in vain self-wreak?”
in sacred toil among the stardust that makes us shine so mystique.

What does thou will, O lord, my lord, of more than we can ever tell?
I know it is my mere duty not to know. Ask I must, ask besides
the husk of my body is yours and yet I know nothing of thee
by whose authority do wield such magics and more asides?
it is not plain to me what sort of horror lies ‘neath the scorched ground
so why do I? Why do I scream? Why do I see the beast in me?
The hound that hunts for those who must be slaughtered despite what else they seek
the wolf inside that hunts, rips, and tears, taken apart piece by piece
the awful sound of howling that’s for me to not and never cease
the stars themselves align to my fate fear in mind and e’er besides
‘Tis here that I myself sit alone and finally to soon die.
for death I prefer to the fate our Gods have brought to us benumbed.

Yet who do I await to meet?
Is it my or is it your Gods?
So ringeth the oldest of bells
to tell us of the coming hell
that none but we the few elite
will e’er believe and e’er deceit
mankind itself will e’er foretell
that if we live then so we well
what we may know merely and ‘til
you wake once again from slumber
for your rise I prefer to the death and demise that will e’er be
as the men of our lands spill blood for blood over something no one sees
ghosts broken of hope in a desolate sea of our salted earth
‘Tis I alone that can harbor the sorrow to beseech my Gods
for your rise I prefer to the choices we alone must atone.