08 - The Plunge Into Oblivion

doom metal, experimental rock, Middle Eastern influences

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A cacophony of lifetimes past, of vessels worn and spent,
Each soul he wore now clamors loud, their endless cries lament.
These walls of flesh imprison all, no death, no freedom’s grace,
Each breath is war, each step is pain, each voice a crowded space.

“Architect of breath and bone, I kneel, your wretched son,
Unmake me now, or fix this cursed life—let justice see me done!”
The heavens tear; a deafening crack splits earth and raging skies,
And carved into the cliff’s raw face: “You were meant to die.”

“At last, an end,” his whisper falls, a plea to stars gone blind,
“To still this storm that breaks my soul, that drowns this fractured mind.
Let oceans take what god denies, let silence claim its due,
And free this cursed form from all the lives it’s cycled through.”

He steps into the gaping void, the wind becomes his shroud,
The crashing sea, a mournful dirge, the waves a murmuring crowd.
He takes his final flight, the sea receives his fall,
Its surface dark, a mirror cold, reflects no trace at all.
The waters rise, their surface stills, to cradle flesh and thought,
Yet fate denies his quiet plea; the peace he sought is naught.

(WE REMEMBER!)
(LIAR!)

In the deep, the soul does stir, a spark against the tide,
A flame unquenched, the curse persists, Khensu cannot hide.
The form dissolves, but not the shackles that bind those he adorns;
As scales arise and fins extend, the cycle is reborn.

A fish he wakes, adrift, alone, amidst the ocean vast,  
His thoughts intact, his memories clear, his soul remains steadfast.  
He swims, but every motion aches with burdens he can’t shed,  
For even here, the voices rise, the choir of the dead.

“Is this my fate?” his conscience cries, “A loop that has no end?
To leap from form to fleeting form, no death, no way to mend?”
A fisherman’s hook gleams sharp and bright, a line to end his strife,
Yet even this, fate's cruel joke; no escape from cursed life.

The fisherman’s grasp is firm but kind, his blade gleams in the sun,  
Yet Khensu wakes within the man, the loop cannot be undone.
His thoughts now tread on foreign ground, the cycle starts anew,  
His endless walk, his immortal life, will never be through.

He walks again to his forsaken throne, his mind a shattered stream,  
The solitude he craved now lost, replaced by darker dreams.

The moon above, unchanging face, bears witness to his grief,
But Khensu knows no mercy comes, no savior, no relief.
Forever bound to endless forms, to lives not truly lived,
He kneels beneath the stars’ cold light, no god left to forgive.

2827/7500

The cliffs rise high, their jagged spires carved sharp by ancient seas, Where winds howl low and death’s embrace drifts softly on the breeze. Khensu stands, a shattered king, his crown of mind decayed, His thoughts a torrent, voices rise—none his, and none obeyed. A cacophony of lifetimes past, of vessels worn and spent, Each soul he wore now clamors loud, their endless cries lament. These walls of flesh imprison all, no death, no freedom’s grace, Each breath is war, each step is pain, each voice a crowded space. “Architect of breath and bone, I kneel, your wretched son, Unmake me now, or fix this cursed life—let justice see me done!” The heavens tear; a deafening crack splits earth and raging skies, And carved into the cliff’s raw face: “You were meant to die.” “At last, an end,” his whisper falls, a plea to stars gone blind, “To still this storm that breaks my soul, that drowns this fractured mind. Let oceans take what god denies, let silence claim its due, And free this cursed form from all the lives it’s cycled through.” He steps into the gaping void, the wind becomes his shroud, The crashing sea, a mournful dirge, the waves a murmuring crowd. He takes his final flight, the sea receives his fall, Its surface dark, a mirror cold, reflects no trace at all. The waters rise, their surface stills, to cradle flesh and thought, Yet fate denies his quiet plea; the peace he sought is naught. (WE REMEMBER!) (LIAR!) In the deep, the soul does stir, a spark against the tide, A flame unquenched, the curse persists, Khensu cannot hide. The form dissolves, but not the shackles that bind those he adorns; As scales arise and fins extend, the cycle is reborn. A fish he wakes, adrift, alone, amidst the ocean vast, His thoughts intact, his memories clear, his soul remains steadfast. He swims, but every motion aches with burdens he can’t shed, For even here, the voices rise, the choir of the dead. “Is this my fate?” his conscience cries, “A loop that has no end? To leap from form to fleeting form, no death, no way to mend?” A fisherman’s hook gleams sharp and bright, a line to end his strife, Yet even this, fate's cruel joke; no escape from cursed life. The fisherman’s grasp is firm but kind, his blade gleams in the sun, Yet Khensu wakes within the man, the loop cannot be undone. His thoughts now tread on foreign ground, the cycle starts anew, His endless walk, his immortal life, will never be through. He walks again to his forsaken throne, his mind a shattered stream, The solitude he craved now lost, replaced by darker dreams. The moon above, unchanging face, bears witness to his grief, But Khensu knows no mercy comes, no savior, no relief. Forever bound to endless forms, to lives not truly lived, He kneels beneath the stars’ cold light, no god left to forgive.

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