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Crows lined the gabled rooftops of the crypt in which she slept—
No stars, no moon—cawing into a night that crept.
Beyond them hummed closed mouths, shrouded procession,
Speaking incantations for infernal perception.

Into the fires, they gave sacrifice.
From the ashes, she spoke thrice.

Stoke the flames, undeath is required.
Sear me.
Tell me, tell me, children of Nod;
Whom do you cherish, me or God?

Then Death walked her into the flames,
As her faithful servants looked upon the flesh
And sang,
Their eyes glowing with possession.
The sight
To see all that could be
Dwelt within the rewards of obsession.
Rewards of obsession.

Then the ground gave way.

Dust, emptiness, intent, hunger
She rises.

She fed on their organs.

She fed on their organs,
While they sang her praise.

The blood filled her bones,
Mutating her to her natural state.

A sight so hideous,
Grotesquerie for all to see.

Grotesque.
Grotesque.
Grotesque.

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