The reaping of flesh and blood

I am the ashen skyline. I am the acid seas; the rains of
Liquid fire; the storms of rock and stone. Supreme is the
Will of the black divinity. A heart of destruction beats
To eternity
At my hands: a legion — swarms of catastrophes
In my trail: cold fire — but wastelands left to see
Both prayers and shouts of worship meet sheer
Indifference. The ghost of harvest scorns you —
This flashing scythe is blind!
These flowers made of flesh and blood
Flourish in a graceful blast
For ages kept a secret, a hideous miracle, deraded, yet
Forgotten — I live in the myth of Hell. Now risen from
Oblivion, from my abysmal sleep; a pitch-black ancient
Darkness is on the face of the deep
These flowers made of flesh and blood
Flourish in a graceful blast