Ten thousand winters forlorn
Betwixt the harvesting scythe
And hawthorn scepter's blaze
Trees like haunting sculptures
Have ever girt the way
Ten thousand winters past...
The seasons were mired in grey
The heavens churned in languid streams
Tempests thrashing on silver mirrors
Horns caressed the gibbous moon
Chill as the void between veiled stars
The howling Wurm in hoary vesture
The with'ring world did wreath
As the reaper o'er the moribund
His frigid pall would drape
Huddled in earth 'round Promethean tears
The pastel light illumed pale faces
Of Man fallen benighted
They sought hope
And severance from the cold
Through shrieking, scathing, star-blown winds
Long was the path
To a hallowed dell of dying leaves
A vestige of green seasons
With what rites, ghastly they danced
As moths fluttering towards flames
Shadows formed and crept from their mouths
And drew them
From the solitude of the wood
To the more dreadful solitude of heart
With tongues of honeyed thorns
They awoke me
Leprous mouths of dwindling faith
They invoked me
Ten thousand winters forlorn
Shrouded in gray
The heavens shone for those who wrought
My decay
Carving their hopes into my flesh
The Wurm collapsed into my marrow
By my blood the season was bought...
Old memories
As myriad bloated corpses
Rising on putrescent tides
Of a loathsome sea
But like the sea, they recede