Rite Lyrics

Here, fog wanders warily.
Here, moonlight falls too thin,
And the choirs quiet throat and night-announcing limb,
At the squat, dilapidated affront their murk therein.

"I pry wide a path...
For this blood more light, more life than that...
Belying messiah could provide.
Such hollow hands..."

And hence the floorboards gored with that ambition's lurid bark,
But more, the countless eyes felt staring from the dark.

What necrophagous plot contradicts the dead necessitated by glory?
...No less that throng's transcendence involuntary!

For a majesty bidding no knee,
No horror'd lash too deep...
And the forest's taloned rafters still hold...
The Hell born on the perishing's weep.

"I slew and strewed these sons and daughters,
My hands' red weight evidencing the wage,
I should attain in state on high...
But come no winged attendants!
No gouts of power recompensing sin-slaked veins!
Just dark! The shift inside the shadows atop...
What ought to be lifeless remains..."

I am the ill intent...
Who set upon the traveler on a road...
That he should not have been on.

And caterwauled that sunken hovel the last...
Refrain from out its hoarsened chorus,
Curse complete in tongue that lolled in glossolalia pleading relief,
From each stoven-faced pubescent reaching out for his feet.