The Beauty of Every Wound

Come children, gather round
This torture hall
The hermits grounds
Witness the toil he lives he breathes
In search of sparks of divinity
My testimony speaks of a cleansing
Written in blood and ash
My sermon speaks of a rebirth
Forged in the fires of the stoic ideal
Embracing the warfare of the soul
Bearing the weight of the world
And crawling crippled up
The ladders of faith
Revering the beauty of every wound
A word to you children
Of the hollow black arts
You lost your sight in the
Arousing dark and fell ill
To pleasures and vices
By devils you have been raised
To serve the passions
To serve the flesh
You sold your own eternity
For the malaise of modernity
So come!
Heed the primordial call
From the hinterlands, no return
For the truth will demand its martyr