Mouthful of dirt, Earth turns to mud,
blacker still in want of blood.

The ivory spires jut forth like teeth,
impaling that which falls beneath.

A scent hangs heavy, ashen air,
shadowed by His heavy stare.

Chains wrap round intent to choke,
all those screams becoming croaks.

Clenched fists, both saved and damned,
crumble inevitably below His hand.

A want, a wish, an invocation,
as masses writhe, abominations.

Unperturbed, undying thrill,
savoring every single kill.

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 19th of Khepary, in the year 494 MA.