In crumbling tomes of old, forgotten by light,
I read the words that time sought to blight.
The profane crawls like fire through my soul,
Yet still, I search—for what
can’t be whole.
The stars are wrong; they flicker, tremble with dread,
And something stirs beneath the shifting tides.
No hallowed man can see what I have seen,
Yet still, the visions claw and tear
at me.
The stars—they scream of what must never be,
And in the deep, the whispered names break free.
In fathomless depths, a dreaming city lies,
Where gods of old prepare to
twist the
sky.
