Azrael has a finger on my pulse.
His infinity is not so far removed,
From the Metatrons' babbling insanities.
Music of the Spheres bouncing,
As infinite echoes bickering in this rubber tomb.
Whom God helps? None but itself. So if God is death, death is god, yes?
Azrael has a'whispered in my ear.
His infinity is not seeking to improve,
On the Metatrons' gabbled profanities.
Music of the Spheres receding,
As infinite sorrows in this indefinite pause of doom.
Whom God helps? None but itself.
The angry dead feign smiles as they point the way.
Through nothing but rocks just quietly spinning,
Around lights a'gaining critical mass.
- Directionless Resurrectio..
- Prey Tell Of The Church F..
- A Prophet For A Pound Of ..
- The Blight of Gods Acre
- The Underside of Eden
- Gatherer of the Pure
- Left Behind As Static
- Corvus Corona, Pt.1
- Corvus Corona, Pt.II
- Dead Love