Like warm spring rain the darke bloode flows.
Like autunm leaves bilious leathery skin dries and falls.
All thought abandoned
as imagination crawls
slow, heavy, dull, relentless
like the shadowes on the walls.
Time drags slow
emotionless yet tense
in the infernal demonic night;
it pulls with sinous and wiry strength
drips of melting wax from the candles' dying light.
Tearing at their screaming blinded eyes
ugly hags are Qliphotic in their flight,
as rivers flow from tiny beads of gleaming sweat
a voice rips open Pandora's Box with dreadful molten cries.
No power defeats the circle or the wisdome of the fire
while the heart is lonely, hard and proud
a nervous drum that beats alone on the final march
towards the eternal silken shroud.

Wytchewoode