The Line

Bent over the cold,
Firm, pale and rotting
Shell one once held dear;

One’s hands snake, frenzied,
Ecstatic, and wild.
To touch is to hurt.

Thirsty are the dead
To drink heartily
From the living’s warmth,

But one must suckle
The morbid remains
To bequeath new life.

Baleful blade to flesh,
It carves and it scribes
The tongue of the dead.

The words do not bleed,
Not yet, not in death,
But bleed they shall do.

The flesh is parchment
And the cuts appeal
To the dark taker.

The navel, a scar,
A lost memory,
Must be cut anew.

The eyes, as teachers,
As pupils, as guides;
They must be replaced.

The heart, forsaken,
It must bleed again.
Thrust the blade inward.

The forbidden crafts
Will undo nature.
Such is man’s nature.

 

From my cold quill,
Erebus Nekromantia

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