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Beneath the vault of sightless gods,

where void-born specters weave and writhe,

The chalice cracks, the cycle ends,

the final breath—a crown of ash.

No light, no sound, no time remains,

only the hollow pulse of fate,

The stars recoil, undone by will,

as flesh dissolves to empty thought.

Through spirals vast, through gates unseen,

where nameless echoes drown in dust,

The final draught, the last descent,

anoint the soul with nothingness.

Drink, and be unmade,

let the current drag you under,

No throne remains, no path to tread,

only silence—ever black.

The stars recoil, undone by will,

as flesh dissolves to empty thought.