XIII: The Devil of Death by Dusk

Fury of the forever broken hands. Like a scald of madness, towards the higher purpose Of the Below order. Growing groans of feeble souls are my anthem to ascension. Erasing the name of the father, forgetting the eyes of the mother. Spitting on my body, but trancedly being in own shadow. What was cursed hundred times, won`t be cursed so far. What magnetized Death, won`t be dead itself so far. By the tickling of a larva I tread on the alleys to steal solace. The Fool in the morning, The Knight of the rueful countenance in the midday, But the Devil of Death by dusk. My new name is the echoes of laughter in the mortuary. My new name is the spits in the coffin of a bride. In my tears you will bathe the corpses of your children And though I`m a white dove, but still the Devil of Death by dusk… And in the echoes of my cries you will embosom the emptiness And though I`m behind the voice of the Lord, but still the Devil of Death by dusk… Those who are born blind to see my swan wings Will have the marks of my claws on their faces. But if there will be a chance to look at my former self, which I once was, When all will be said and done? ….Your faithfully, your Scapegoat…

Submitted by MetalElf — Apr 25, 2025