I long for the days forgotten,
Days huddled along the bed of an old swamp,
For days old and rotten,
Days boundless, crushed by his weightless stomp.
Nor let me arouse the familiar occasion,
To tones of crackling ends,
Let me not wither in sensation,
Rather wander until I reach the old bends.
Is it all round and fair?
To care for his certain demise,
But torment and rattle deep within my lair,
Groaning my ascent into his holy skies.
I too shall wait among his prescence,
The Creator of darkness and fate, I shall know my essence.