We

We are stories of the few, Infested with burning lacerations. We see the future, And we despair. We feel the sickness, And it makes nothing the same. We hear the whispers, Of those hills stained red. We are haunted by fossils; The bones forgotten and buried. We cry, to be lost in the steely sky, And beg for something different, With no words to speak its Name. We learn of the Emptiness, Yet summon the creatures of old, And drown in our subtle worship. We reach out. We grasp, and negate. We rejoice in empty triumph. We Fall. We stand; We fight, We love, We kill, We confront the abyss Himself, Only to realize the Brutal Circle; We grow enough to see, That we never were, And we die, For we never will be.