---

Alive,

breathing

but lost and forlorn.

Hindsight.

Memories stinging like thorns.

Up on his tower high

Lord of moths sleeps with open eyes.

We bring his cult to life -

A liquid light that shines inside.

Death rites,

pounding drums and ram’s horns.

Betide!

You can hear the winds mourn.

Near light waiting to be reborn.