Azathoth, upon the black throne,
steps of twelve hesitant to tone.
Madness and chaos swallowed your mind,
ears of the deaf, eyes dying to be blind.
Shrills of discordance to rattle this hell,
Creating our world as Barbelzoa fell.

He sees you not, too blind to care,
he can not answer to what he doesn't know is there.
Before her fall, sat a throne, the purest of white,
silver crown on the queen, a beauty of light.

The twelve danced with compassion and Joy,
the twelve being thirteen, a conjoined girl and a boy.
Ripped from the twelve, the thirteenth, a faceless creature to devour,
trickery and blood play, our darkest hour.

Nyarlathotep, a name not to be cursed under breath,
for the least of your worries will be death.
In the center of nothingness, to find all that can't be seen,
To be greeted by Nyarlathotep, who is far vicious and mean.

Gnashing his teeth as he whispers these lies,
using deceit to cover the cries.
The dread he feels to speak Azathoth's name,
To slaughter all who give him fame.

See all the countless chapters of the souls he took,
only for you to be next, carve your blood in the book.