One cannot see beyond one’s own vastness.
The quest for light, itself an inward pull
From which light cannot escape;
And creating a hunger:
Ever expanding, abyssal hunger

Reaching for the stars,
We are become the dreadful Mouth of the Wyrm,
Devourer of all things.
The belly of the Beast churns
With untamed appetite,
Chasing the tail of moments everlasting.

We are bound to Terra,
To remain here a while,
Until such time comes
When we must depart from the world.

As the body is destroyed,
The Animus is cast into darkness.
But it is never lost.

Beyond Representation
Lie the Formless is waiting.
Unhewn Bodies of Infinite Will.
They know us as we know ourselves.
They know our doom as they know their own.

Man, that pitiful would-be god,
He scorns the fly, he weeps for the dog, and mocks the swine.
But how, then, does he imagine the Æons look upon man himself?

(THE FORMLESS)
"As you may sometimes
Praise the fox or hare,
Admiring its cunning and speed,
And lamenting as the hounds tear its flesh,
So do we sometimes
Admire our prey,
As it cheats our snares
Or eludes pursuit."

So celebrate you your grand office,
And exalt you your works
While they yet stand untarnished.
But know yourself not so different
From the Formless that lie in wait.

"Like all worldly things, you will in time wear, and be used up. You age, grow ugly, weak, and foolish. You are always lost, late or soon.

Man is mortal, and doomed to death and failure and loss.
This lies beyond our comprehension―why do you not despair?"

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