Throughout this thousand year war,
Numberless threads have been severed,
Both political and carotid,
Every fall gives rise to a cult,
A coven of worms,
A morbid congregation drawn together,
Each elongated creature both priest and disciple,

Each slain prince or pauper,
Becomes a temple of writhing masses,
Another prone parish of rot,
Erected on putrescent pillars,
Ribcages holding up their necrotic chapels,
Flesh is chewed away in ritual feasts,
Marrow supped like wine from bone,

These cultists are no fiends though,
It’s simply the way of the world,
Entropy and taxes being the only certainties,
Even the most triumphant and grand of us,
Shall be naught but a temple for the worms,
Little more than grisly alms,
Meat for the cult.

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