The Book of Thanatos- Chapter 3, Verses 9-15

high-fidelity dark mix of global samples and hypnotic structures utilizing synthesizers both Slavic and Hindi, electronic production, and beats, with eerie redwood flute melodies and conceptual ideas of mortality, strong psybient fusion of psytrance, ambient, and world music, features intricate electronic production layered with ethnic instruments, flutes, male vocals with heavy Scottish highlands' accent, and immersive SFX soundscapes and clever stereo panning effects designed to evoke altered states of scary consciousness

Something like religion, like that poet beast, 
crippling, shambling-gait, 
crawling toward his New Jerusalem.

The prophet sighs/hisses. 
The rope about his neck invigors his feet 
to dance upon the open air.

Uriah leaks out a final vision, 
puddles the unvarnished floor boards 
a darker promise, 
a gradient of warmth gone to gray.

Syncophants and pederasts 
mull over the pattern, repeat past phrases.
In absolute error, they are enraptured.

(Oh, it moves so slowly, yet so near. 
It froths upon the horizon 
and the corner of his lips.)

Rat hordes come legion,
legion becomes host. 
Take this, oh wolf pack, 
this will be the body 
of a lesser god gnawed.

And onto you an abortion shall be given. 
In being ravaged,

-ravagement- 
In being tormented, 
-torment- 
In pieces, 
peace.

Saalam sabers and shalom swords. 
Namaste gas swirling, 
gagging the mistakenly enlightened 
and the blessedly ignorant,

for all are equal yet less than zero.

Mea culpa. 
Mea fucking culpa!

(See it! See it! It foams up 
and crashes like a wave over the city walls! 
There is no place to run!)

Uriah swings, dancing done. 
Just a forgetting, 
an inaudible rhythm that continues a terrible
...an awful...
devouring of time feeding 
off this altar of horror.

Now, this isn't the time for lies, but, to create the magic, a large part of acknowledging the truth of things is to understand the lies and mind the chaos that follows.

I would show thee the Wyrde,
 aye, I would.  
But I canna make thee see it.  It is to some to believe, and some to doubt, and some to open their eyes and some to go blind- it is the way of things.  But, true is true in any color, in brightest day or darkest night.  We cover it with gold but only see pretty glitter. Bury it in secret places and grow flowers over its living grave.  A multitude of lies to obstruct and distract from the Form of Forms, 
Yea, even to a crowning of thorns.  A simple chapbook of dull crimson.  An eye to every word, but the Wyrde itself.

It canna be shattered, but, piecemeal, it is broken and like sugar water, diluted-  A snippet here, a droplet there.  A part that is ever broken, still, the whole,
but not.

I sigh 
because it's a lunatic's ravings in the desert, it is, but that doesn't make it a lie.  In eleven days maybe I'll know better.

"Stop!,"

I hear that cry, from Shadow's breath and discordant minds.  Ever willful, sing the lines, a'crumbling, a'rending, outside of time.  It knows not how the cycle spirals or how this shall ever lead- a building up, a tearing down-  Proceed, proceed, proceed, proceed.

I read this, over and over. 
Who is this?  
What dark angel's wing has gusted up this wind?  
What elder dredge from Between has screamed?  
Wherever did I wander?  Look up and see me smile.  
Knowing nothing.  Look up and see me cry.

Can you hear me with thy heart or do you wish another lie?

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Something like religion, like that poet beast, crippling, shambling-gait, crawling toward his New Jerusalem. The prophet sighs/hisses. The rope about his neck invigors his feet to dance upon the open air. Uriah leaks out a final vision, puddles the unvarnished floor boards a darker promise, a gradient of warmth gone to gray. Syncophants and pederasts mull over the pattern, repeat past phrases. In absolute error, they are enraptured. (Oh, it moves so slowly, yet so near. It froths upon the horizon and the corner of his lips.) Rat hordes come legion, legion becomes host. Take this, oh wolf pack, this will be the body of a lesser god gnawed. And onto you an abortion shall be given. In being ravaged, -ravagement- In being tormented, -torment- In pieces, peace. Saalam sabers and shalom swords. Namaste gas swirling, gagging the mistakenly enlightened and the blessedly ignorant, for all are equal yet less than zero. Mea culpa. Mea fucking culpa! (See it! See it! It foams up and crashes like a wave over the city walls! There is no place to run!) Uriah swings, dancing done. Just a forgetting, an inaudible rhythm that continues a terrible ...an awful... devouring of time feeding off this altar of horror. Now, this isn't the time for lies, but, to create the magic, a large part of acknowledging the truth of things is to understand the lies and mind the chaos that follows. I would show thee the Wyrde, aye, I would. But I canna make thee see it. It is to some to believe, and some to doubt, and some to open their eyes and some to go blind- it is the way of things. But, true is true in any color, in brightest day or darkest night. We cover it with gold but only see pretty glitter. Bury it in secret places and grow flowers over its living grave. A multitude of lies to obstruct and distract from the Form of Forms, Yea, even to a crowning of thorns. A simple chapbook of dull crimson. An eye to every word, but the Wyrde itself. It canna be shattered, but, piecemeal, it is broken and like sugar water, diluted- A snippet here, a droplet there. A part that is ever broken, still, the whole, but not. I sigh because it's a lunatic's ravings in the desert, it is, but that doesn't make it a lie. In eleven days maybe I'll know better. "Stop!," I hear that cry, from Shadow's breath and discordant minds. Ever willful, sing the lines, a'crumbling, a'rending, outside of time. It knows not how the cycle spirals or how this shall ever lead- a building up, a tearing down- Proceed, proceed, proceed, proceed. I read this, over and over. Who is this? What dark angel's wing has gusted up this wind? What elder dredge from Between has screamed? Wherever did I wander? Look up and see me smile. Knowing nothing. Look up and see me cry. Can you hear me with thy heart or do you wish another lie?

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