Ghost of death, hear our prayers.
Exhume our evil souls.
Reanimate our divine being of Darkness so that we may besiege the endless river of souls
and summon the dead to make war with the anointed one.
Make fast these seven winters of Hell so that we may present a dozen dead roses
to the Christ and reclaim what was ours.
Critical Condition
Confined inside a chaotic circle within the vastness of the mind.
A unclean madness spins its web, forever to be its slave.
A growing thickness of the void chokes the life from the simplicity of rational thought.
A dark heart hardens while blackened blood overflows with wicked delight.
The frozen stillborn reality offers no escape from the path chosen then followed.
Forever is nothing as nothing is forever for the broken shell of sanity.
Only will it find serenity with a beautiful evil death.
Darkest of souls, take forth this hand.
Guide this life through endless journey.
Ancient of days, Prince of Hell, caress this willing eager soul.
Baptize with blessing in blood of martyrs.
Pervade this body with presence and make known your forbidden will.
In beautiful Hell, submerge this faith and darken the light, so I may see.
This I request of you.
Original sin, art, and writings by Atticus. © copyright 2003-2005 Season of Misery Productions