It's almost night
|
The clouds are streaked with violet
|
And the moon is bright
|
Banish your innocence
|
|
There is no breeze
|
Disquiet lurks in silence
|
By this place of power
|
Your sins must escalate
|
|
What has come before
|
And recurs perpetually
|
Is on it's way
|
Cherish each atrocity
|
|
Woodland dark surroundings
|
Ill lit by twin beacons
|
A black car approaches
|
With two men inside it
|
|
With the right temptation
|
Murder needs to prompting
|
The man riding shotgun
|
Has just killed his own son
|
|
To nurture the white worms
|
|
Still and isolated
|
The woodframe house stands vacant
|
Humans that once lived here
|
Can no longer be found
|
|
And yet all are present
|
Well fed and ghastly white
|
In the mound of moist earth
|
That sits just by the road
|
|
His rigid features inexpressive
|
He flings his son's blonde head upon the heap
|
This last act earns him his metamorphosis
|
For he who built the house is at the wheel
|
|
To nurture the white worms
|
|
Darkling souls, though larval
|
With each sin can mutate
|
Into something dreadful
|
Before dawn, you'll pupate
|
And feed on innocents
|
Nourished by more like you
|
To someday haunt the aether
|
In obscene evolution
|
|
The house is hell
|
With it's windows all agape
|
Through these come some worms
|
And they have sprouted wings
|
|
Fear is forever, the objective
|
To goad the rest of humanity
|
Into acts of pervert nature
|
And bring out the worm in all of us
|
|
-----------------
|
White Worms
|
| Cryptopsy |
