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The pallid scourge

from Apocalypticists by Kriegsmaschine



He'd cut himself open. Plant the seeds of plague within. Wear a scripture of scars. Caress the acerbic gangrene. Build on decay. Grow upon failure. Absorb rot. Devour corruption. Feed on ruin. Crawl through the pits. Gaze into gray skies. Swallow the ashen ardor. Tear off the eyelids. Peel the skin away. Coil his limbs into a breathing sculpture. He would become the pallid scourge. Court offender in service of loss. The herald of doom comes in silence. His presence revealed in trembling of history. He would rise a new temple. Paint its walls with refined filth. Burn bricks off crushed lives. Pave the road with lost forgiveness. The herald of doom comes without fanfare. The ashes of empires beneath his feet. Bones of the fallen pulverized to dust. Joined together with spit of the virtuous. Hardened in boiling bile of the holy men. Immersed in the unknown. Tempered in a haze of sulphurous fumes. He would bleed all over this stone. The herald of doom comes with a promise. The true believer craves change. He would cast away his light and his shadow. He would become one with the pallid scourge.


from Apocalypticists, released October 21, 2018


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Kriegsmaschine Kraków, Poland

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