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