Dreaming Above The Sepulcher

All hymns are hollow, unheard outside the gate of in-

between and unbeknown fall like wounded birds from the

heavens back unto the supplicant. Thus I slumber upon the

threshold of death and dream the dreams of gods. It is

here that I have sung my hymns into the mouths of the

dead, that they may not rise but fall down and down

through the chambers of slumber and unto the darkness of

deaths ingress. Lamentation and evocations in the same

cadence, resounding like the songs of Thessalian witches.

And with bones snatched from the maws of ravening dogs I

have mocked the cathedrals mason, constructing an ill

house of darkness mirrored within the birdless lake, a

black mansion of dreaming Night. Within these dolente

lands where the Incubi abound, I have chased the children

of the psalm-singers from cyprus to tomb and jugulated

them one by one. In my visions I have spilled the

haimakuria within graven trenches dug by my nails from

cemetery marle. I would dare to do more. I would will to

go further. I would sit opposite the Lord of Slumber,

face down turned to gaze upon the cascading abyss. I

would hear truths unspoken and un-scribed within silence.

I would place deaths crown upon my head and intone my

will in a tongue of stygian threnodies, with cacophonous

and mournful wails upon nightmare choruses of dying

lepers falling before their graves. I would draw the gaze

of my daemon self upon myself that I may murder myself

and become my daemon, and move ever closer towards the

incalculable totality of the Great Darkness that is the

Supreme.