This is the mountain on which I will die.
A pale peak bearing witness to my liberation - the overwhelming scent of pines invades my senses.
Trees bend over memories.
A march of bad decisions - a host of kings with faces masked by my inhuman nature.
I was chosen to bear oily feathers - slippery and sharp, a weapon against their creator.
Born to devour the night - a shadow slipping through wounds in dreams.
Devouring years of emptiness.
Dancing on the dry remains of who I was.
Crimson stained my chin - treated not as food, but as communion.
My desire becomes a drug.
Drawing me through the twilight.
The only candle I can light.
Is one nourished not by sulfur, but by my own blood.
[ I light the candle every night - feeding it with myself,
viscera-like wax, veins-like wick
its shine separating me from the flesh of my horrors ]
This is the mountain on which I will die.
An oblivion worthy of a god.
Savouring the last throes of my immortality.
This is me - facing the morning
This is me - becoming the lord of the day.