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Once a shadow effigy
has carved itself onto a soul,
it stays within it endlessly,
burning for it to extol.

To laud those wicked reveries,
depicted as nefarious art.
To not forget the ecstasies
primeval devils can impart.

A mask with waiting eyes that stare,
will stir up spectres from within,
reminding of what isn’t there
and still unceasingly is seen.

The empty aeons won’t erase
what’s always there, obscure, sublime –
the image of its burning face,
though plunged in the abyss of time.

It’s looming evermore inside,
a blazing, Stygian paragon,
until the host has waned and died,
a baleful, haunting eidolon.

A vague and smouldering unease
that never ceases to maraud.
It never fades, it grants no peace,
that unrelenting, restless god.

Too deeply graven to erode,
the image doesn’t fade away,
but makes the soul its own abode,
its follower and constant prey.

It prowls in dreams, in thoughts off guard
in absent moments it will surge.
Complete oblivion is barred
before the sounding of a dirge.

The empty aeons won’t erase
what’s always there, obscure, sublime –
the image of its burning face,
though plunged in the abyss of time.

It’s looming evermore inside,
a blazing, Stygian paragon,
until the host has waned and died,
a baleful, haunting eidolon.

A vague and smouldering unease
that never ceases to maraud.
It never fades, it grants no peace,
that unrelenting, restless god.

It’s looming evermore inside,
a blazing, Stygian paragon,
until the host has waned and died,
a baleful, haunting eidolon.

And then the journey is complete
with nothing gained and nothing won.
The only path was to defeat,
a mind is dead, a god is gone.

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