I will paint your emptiness with rings of betrayed faith;

your pretence with shadows of inherited adversity;

your possessions with rugged bodies smoked and charred by defeats;

your chambers with the oil of the unborn, half-breeds in between worlds;

your bosom with the premature senility of my decaying heart;

your sacred games with the coital blood of a breathless virgin;

your ignorance with the silhouette of empty coldness of the metaphysical;

your lucid dreams with a voluntary union of the Imp of Perverse;

your borrowed breaths with embarrassing spastic contractions;

your existence with the stench of your burning carcass from the underworld;

Carving out your reptilian face, so neat and dainty sweet as a lovely melancholy that perches high on the ashes of my dear father, cursed and denigrated by your half-clad devotees.

On the solstice this winter, when the tides will rise and the moon will come to dine, your blood will lust to gush forth and consume itself to free the wives and sons of death itself. And my mercy shall sing to consecrate truth and liberty in your departing shadows from the face of this existence.