My prophecy is a nightmare, my path is a like a hedge of thorns
On to the burning wastes, on to the great rift
To harvest the bitter fruit and drink from the barren springs
My land is roamed by worms, my teeth are gnashing
A shrine of flesh that had risen, a mind that sparked above the stars
Scorched by the consuming fire in the forges of the nether God

Towards the noumenon

Deprived of both a body and the mind that animates it
The soul is petrified in a monstrous satori
It is hermeticism of the abyss that has trampled it
Into a blunt instrument of enlightenment

Towards the noumenon, towards apocalypse

A lifetime of unquenchable thirst and ravenous hunger
Has carved out an devouring automata
Destroyed by the bitterness
Of its grievous and long-protracted punishment

My cup runneth dry, my house is divided
On to the burning wastes, on to the great rift
A vast network of fractures, the forecourts of Sheol
The night is as a garment, the face has been obscured

Apex prelest, conscious nothing
Axis damni, embers of pneuma

Disunity, estrangement
The cruelty of the other death