Body of the shadow slowly creeping out for dawn to cover His light with ours gone
In the hours before dawn, they call us Leagion, and we are many cursed with the gift of eternity; life dances above us, broken and alone.
We ear the sounds of lingering silence drawn from the mouths of babes sacraficed at the ashen altar; to remind us: death comes for us all!
And it's all for you, my nightmare Night Mare! We ride the horizon of your iris, deep as the vacuum of space, collecting this occular accuity for a chance to inhabit our grace.
A homage to the shadow within and without. An experiment with darkness by a one who is otherwise quite light.