Prophecy of the worms

The prophecy

Listen closely to the brevity within my breath.

Words as if blood shall spill from these lips

And lightning casts its pale anti-shadow, cracked upon the ground. The operations of the clockwork constellations ticking away, driving this world closer and closer to oblivion. The machinations of heaven are of my making, and i shall show you how in the morphology of man.

These hands shaped mortals, who carry the seeds of creation and ruination within themselves. Their forms shaped from the dust of forgotten bones and ruined civilizations. My tongue casts spells which enticed that without form to sculpt the land. Embryonic, unaware of its purpose. Their naive eyes blind to the knowledge of the corpses flowing through their veins. Ruination is their birthright, but The crucible of their trials, shall resurrect the manic love. And the souls rise like whispers from the soaked earth, mist congregating among the twilighted scope of landscape.

And the lineage of man shall be cast down through the centuries, cursed with the mark of hubris and contempt for one another. I have seen the severed head of a prince, raised high in gibbering ecstasy, the lunacy of a crowd spitting curses and enchanting entropy, bringing its winged destruction down from the outer darkness. And through the cycle of eons, longer than any bone’s weary decay, they shall regenerate themselves. Dull and idiotic, as stupid as before. The children have a propensity for ignorance and decadence. The world  shall be plunged into fire. The moon and sun shall depart from this land, and none shall know rest. Those, of flesh, will become wicked and vile towards one another, and the rivers of life shall be clogged with blood and oil. Mountains of steel and rock rising like jagged, predatorial teeth towards the bleeding firmament. Armies of burnished armor will bury each other in their own blood, And miasma shall settle upon the land. And when all that is holy and sacred has been bled dry in ritualistic nihilism, the hands that shaped and molded the little wretched things, shall set fire to their sculpted prison, and the darkness shall eat itself in confusion. The anarchtic systems shall fray and dismantle themselves. And when this happens, those who held tight to integrity shall be trophied with nirvana. Taken on high in vehicles of gilded scars, they shall start anew, but the power of chaos shall always remain. The order of the Void, whose name is not spoken. The great eternal woe. The the swirling, entropic existence. It will always be born anew. For this world shall always require the eternal services of evil so that the balance of the universe remains intact.