Alright, one more track that’ll be on the demo, then I’ll spare you guys. And after I re-master the poor sound quality on the other ones, I’ll probably actually name them.
Persephone - Untitled III
The contour depressed with finger tips. She leaves smudges on satin like charcoal on skin. With a fistful of hair, neck pulled back, the same fibers strain. Draping a red sheet over a pale hand, glowing with heat and moisture. It hangs out of a porcelain tub like a spire of demand. She points and I adhere to her will.
The black tide of existence drowns her body, she writhes with power as she ascends beyond the void. Taking the throne at the head of nothingness, she clutches a spear of light to her breast, with the corpses of the weak men at her feet.
“To me, yearn to me! Die unto me and thy death shall be my nectar. Bleed, weep, lament your existence; I will drink in the bliss of your anguish. Each wound, a pearl of my ecstasy. Each tear, the honey of my loins. The ash of your bones powdered on my cheeks, and the ruin of mankind- the crown which adorns my head.”
Red knuckles, ridges of a milky fist, her stare, in the dark her eyes are opals under a dying light. Palms pressed on cold tile, words choke through a hand on a throat, wisps of black hair in my mouth.
One light hanging from the towering ceiling. A yellow pool in the void is harborer of sorrow, of pleasure.
Back and forth, a transgression of greed and fingertips. Teeth like porcelain spears, arched back give alms to the sublime. They stop moving.
When I stopped breathing she sat back on her feet, shins pressed against the edge of the universe, hands cupped to receive the offerings of Hell.
Grasp of her golden hands, strain not in anguish. Sweet vein of her flesh, weeping of the mighty dunes, offer naught in sacrifice, for this dawn of firmament is the very tendrils of ecstasy which pass lovingly through her fingers.
Harken. Mine Matriarch, this sermon which I unfold, these hands open to deliver these alms, my will bequeathed from sorrow into the vestibule of thy loving chalice. The brim strains, then runneth over with the offering of the claret of mine own veins. But doth thou hear my address? And O’ my maiden how shall you entertain my weary flesh? Bruised are my knees which kneel to your idol upon midnight’s satin grace. Drooping are mine eyes which cast an adoring gaze upon thy image, gilded with celestial splendour. And for this chance at glory I cave upon thy pedestal under the universal anguish. Which is the object of my tireless lust. Unabashed do I collapse at the fountain of the sublime. Earth’s own porcelain oblation thrust from beyond the void, I behold the gifts of thy adorned hands, Little Sister.