Feast Of The Damned

In the depths where shadows crawl, a feast begins—descent into thrall. Feeding on the broken, the lost, the torn. From the guts of the past, new horrors are born.

Crawling from the rotting pits of despair, corpses dance in the stagnant air. Viscous mouths gape, whispering lies swallowing hope, sealing demise.

Eyes filmy with necrotic glare, piercing through the sallow flesh unaware. A symphony of screams, a choir of dread in this feast, all innocence is dead.

Bite into the rotten flesh of sin, savour the filth deep within. Carnal hunger, unholy desire, burn in the pyre of funeral fire. Feast of the damned, shadows' embrace devoured by the void, lost in disgrace.

Slither through the carcasses, thick with pus, a river of maggots, the endless fuss. Broken bones and shattered souls, crack beneath the weight of your control.

Hear the squelch of diseased decay, an orchestra of nightmares, night and day. Walls ooze with tar and gore sickened gods, they bleed no more.

Drown in the bile of your own despair, a sick parade in nightmare’s lair. Parasitic worms in the hollow crown, crown of black, forever bound.

Here in the hellish feast, you’ll rot forever part of the monstrous, decaying tether. Consume, decay, and then dissolve, in this pit from which no soul evolves.