There are murky pools of truth
reflecting the treasures of grave
robbers everywhere on display.
These cesspools of morality
the world wishes never existed
which bears witness to the winged
kings of eternity who once ruled over
the entire essence between dust and air.
Yet there are mites in certain flesh who despise
the bridges of time and destroy
the very forest of light where
the arms of trees used to extend
and embrace the earth
that now fails to rise because the sun
falls and leaves gather its shadow
in the crescent star of the abyss,
and it is these mites in flesh who
are intent to cancel the Apocalypse.
Above this, buried beneath the status quo,
are the extinguished suns of heaven,
hurting from all the wasp stings
and venomous asp bites they've
received from their well-to-do
parasitic hosts who came live from hell
to cast with pride the spell of Baal and
quench the suns who are the relics of
ancient waters which flowed to nourish the
barren nights of child sacrifice and other
unsanitary kingdoms which fornicate
with one another while menstruating
and giving birth to unholy world war.
Some say these are tales of yore,
but ignore the constellations whose
circuit reveals the course in which
the oceans have run. And soon the
high tide will come, the natural
affect of the moon filled with blood,
to release the fury of two millennia
enslaved to a beast whose flesh
is filled with mites and whose
stolen treasures are from the very
graves which contained the bones
of the sunlight that sought to
exterminate the mites which
poisoned the blood of the beast.
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