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Sanctified blood in the chalice of sin,

drips through the mouths of the devoutless.

The veil was torn by cursed hands—

no savior walks beyond the wound.

Chains of prayer coil like serpents,

writhing around a tongue that blasphemes.

Each word is a blade,

each breath a sacrament of rot.

From the pit of godless depth

rises the gnosis of decay.

Truth lies not in light—

but in the agony of endless descent.

Wounds open like stigmata of chaos,

where the black sun spills its seed.

We drink the marrow of the profane

and wear the crown of reversal.

This path is not of men,

nor of beasts,

but of those born in the hollows

where names are forbidden.