A day of stark reminders, it signals the return.
Of memories of our ancestors, a pain of slowest burn.
Not of grandeur or glory, but whispers of dark past.
When dark magic was summoned, and we first bowed at black mass.
The mass men burn, with yearning and patience short.
Alight their hearts with promises, envy their souls contort.
The beast shudders and wanders while patricians hush past.
It wears the soil of the verdant nation vast.
And from the halls of Sloth, is barred with steady staff.
He is but myth, like bloated stag or golden calf.
He bears not the mark of children, a shadow of the flesh.
For those who bear the mark, are free from sin’s enmesh.
With ever greater zeal the patricians fling their mass.
Each spinning chunk of rock, o’er greener pastures pass.
Till ‘xotic trees are flattened and craters terra pock.
Like bears they maul and gore, with blessed ignorance balk.
‘Round the smoking craters, the dusky rabble bend.
Till in ‘lliptic patterns trace, they orbit without end.
For when patricians meddle, they bend space and coin.
Mass men in their wake frolic and in their ploy enjoin.
Through the barbarous epoch, comes a rising tide.
It drowns the Beast of Baylor, and washes babes inside.
The brothers ripped asunder, find strangers in the gaps.
It’s hard to love they neighbor, when their sum to chaos maps.
The deranged and disordered mass, form no body head can guide.
The brothers’ halls crumble, and they slowly shed their pride.
They grasp at shards of power and lust for Clausius’s throne.
The dark arts singe their fingers, and Forum’s maw crush their bones.
They decompose their masters, but in patricians find no cause
For the source of their magic, nor the untold scorn of their laws.
There is no escape but order, from the ravages of time.
So render unto Caesar things that are Caesar’s: take only what is thine.
There is no power o’er the patricians but the sorrow and the rot.
Let them feed their ‘xotic fetishes, for their magic is for naught.
Man may bend the knee, man may bend the truth, but nature no man can bend.
No ritual, no sacrifice, no offering for which natures laws suspend.
Brush the scales from thy lids, and grace the world with fresh eyes.
See the world as it is, and from the ashes arise.
Gather all thy men. Build His kingdom with strength thine own.
Forge fetters for the demons, and mark His wisdom in stone.
Put to the sword black masses and raze their temples to the ground.
Find the best among you, and give to him the crown.
And till His Kingdom cometh, hold tight your kith and kin.
For in your blood and soil, you’ll find your exit within.
There is no honor ‘mong thieves, not even with collars frilled.
For there is to ease to plunder, and virtue to build.
Rest not on thy laurels, above all when climate fair.
Rise up to majesty, till Beast of Baylor silk wear.
God’s call breaks us from our fiction.
Nature mentors us and from our fate ne’er silo.
Or cold and alien specter, sort not beast from man.
Nature treats our fragile struggle, like the wisdom of a bug.