Hung be the sky
With black
Yield day to night
May the
Presage
Come alive
With pure rage
Out of the grim nothingness,
Out of the dismal woods and noxious mists
Into an assemblage of warmth,
Into your house, your room, your wrists
Know, however many doors you
Lock I’ll batter down them all
And whatever forces you summon
They can’t save your soul
Oftentimes it seems to you
Something silently lurks there beyond the light
yield
wrists
world
witch
windows
whatever
until
there
yourself
termination
summon
standing
source
flesh
guaranteed
lurks
doors
chain
start
dismal
candles
desperate
creed
chasing
concentration
forces
become
batter
forced
separating
faith
alive
black
assemblage
bright
check
beyond
bring
myself
grows
house
reality
however
light
woods
something
green
mists
night
warmth
before
nothingness
noxious
oftentimes
overwhelming
place
presage
rueful
ruthlessly
seems
shall
silently
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