The Lament Configuration, AGospel of Hooks and Pain; The Symphony of Scars

The box sits heavy, a puzzle of lacquered bone, A geometry of sorrow where the light is never shown. With a click of the brass, the meridian aligns, And the air grows thick with the scent of old pines. The walls begin to breathe, a damp and rhythmic sound, As blue-tinged shadows rise up from the ground. No more prayers, no more hollow pleas for grace, The Leviathan is hungry for a fresh and weeping face. Open the gate, let the cold chains fly, Under a black and labyrinthine sky. We have such sights to show you, such secrets to impart, With a hook in the muscle and a needle in the heart. It’s a symphony of tendons, a masterpiece of pain, Where the blood runs like nectar through a rusted iron drain. Enter the Cenobite, the priest of the scar, Tearing through the veil from a world very far. Pins driven deep through the pale, waxen skin, To harvest the soul and the rot that’s within. We’ll peel back the layers, the vanity, the pride, Until there is nothing left for you to hide. The flesh is a canvas, the blade is the pen, We’ll write you a gospel again and again. Through the Channard Institute, the corridors of glass, Where the doctors of torture watch the centuries pass. From the Pillar of Souls to the fire and the frost, The price of the pleasure is everything lost. Do not scream for mercy, for mercy is a lie, In the garden of suffering, you never truly die. Open the gate, let the cold chains fly, Under a black and labyrinthine sky. We have such sights to show you, such secrets to impart, With a hook in the muscle and a needle in the heart. It’s a symphony of tendons, a masterpiece of pain, Where the blood runs like nectar through a rusted iron drain. The box is now closed, but the echoes remain, A shadow of hooks and a longing for pain. Your tears are a waste, a delicious regret, For the Cenobite’s debt is never quite met. The configuration waits. Come to us. We’re waiting.