FALSE - Untitled



The sun sets still on the longest night And casts upon the earth a veil of sorrow. for all of life’s ends at the dying of the year. Time’s ticking sickle cuts the wheat from the chaff, All that is useless falls away with the waning light. A fruitful darkness from which all is born. On this longest night of winter, In the bleakest hour of our souls, We devote this sacrifice in honor of our rebirth. Our lady of darkness, Maiden, Mother and Crone, Bless us with our desires, For we have sown our seed in the darkness of the Earth. As the blessed dawn emerges And the great fire sets light upon the shadow. We praise the Wheel of the Year. For from death, comes life. And with life comes sacrifice. From sacrifice comes our sorrow. And ever turns the Wheel over and over.


Rend of the veil of uncertainty, soul enraptured in ecstatic misery. Marry yourself to the untying of your birth. Linger not at the foot of Jehovah’s alter, with fools drunk from the blood of the false prophet. Give instead your graces to the Supreme Hierophant. Adorn his fawn skin with your blood. So tired is he who asks all the while to his death why he must live. Fear not your placelessness, for you have always been a stranger to this world. The death knell will ring all the while, giving you a pace with which to walk. Forever on, always to the next grazing pasture. So long as you are alone, aligned with the moonlight in the flicker of Neptune’s luster, you are never mistaken. Rend the veil of selfhood. The most laughable entity, a farce married to the untying of your death. ‘I’ is a mirage created in a delusion of grandeur. Wounds are sought in knowing. Where this pain lies, truth follows. Somatic deprecation is the calcification of the will. That which is broken becomes everything. The body decays and becomes the Earth. Death is welcomed, not to be dead, but to feel the Self dying. To cleanse the idea of self with the deluge of blood from flesh. This is the rebirth through pain, in which we embrace the sensuality of nothingness.


Pity is a vile mistress. A cloak woven with shame. Bow to nothing but the strength Of willfully planted seed. Seek the blood that ails you. Carry the scythe proudly across the plain. Call forth the host of Jehovah and say with victory his name. Lyse the sinew of this master. Bestow his flesh with the gift of blade. The sky sings our praises. Raining upon us his blood. Rendering our fields turgid with the marrow of his bone. The master is known. Three times a flight the blaze. We taunt his name. By the master we are not created. The master is whom we create. Fear not the master. Be not the slave. Judge our forefathers at the tide of even. Repeat the words of common folk whose throats are constricted. Show no mercy to those who. open their mouths and eat of life. And live again after death everyday.


We are the void, the listless hollow. Hot, empty, pitted stones. Dancing in the song of Lilith's revenge, we are her sweetless perpetual mourn. We are the blood down the thighs of that sacrificial mother, her mistaken purged birth. A consecration of rotten semen and late desires carved in stone fog. We trace our fate in the lines of a dead man's face through the eye of his executioner. And our magic is great; for just as he, we see truth in our mechanisms as a child does in his imaginary playmate. This life is comedy, laughing, with his bone-white fingers growing tired around our necks. Giving us his sweet, plagued breath, ever reminding us of our joyless folly: We shall live as fiending witches and die by our devices greater as kings, rotting in our post-mortem excrement. Sinking into the earth splayed in the decadence of the evolving colors of our dead flesh. Our beautiful ode to squalor.


I haul I weep and mourn. I haul I weep and mourn. Because I dredge, because I dredge. One side, my body lies east. One side, my body lies west. Blood dripping down the hedge. Blood dripping down the hedge. I call upon my sisters. She who command the night. She who spin the souls of the wretched. Weaving with them the threads of magic. I count the grains of sand. And hear the words of the mute. I speak the voice of god. And pull the ocean near. Parting her mists to our liking. I walk with death and his brother sleep. Along the hedge, along the hedge. Hither and ell. Neither alive nor dead. Hither and ell. The realm of living the realm of dead.

Texty | FALSE - Untitled | Hard Music Base


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