RESILE: A BLACK METAL POEM
You cannot linger on the precipice
.
Zoroaster knew it.
It was all dross and gold and shit on the way up.
In the end you have three choices.
You throw yourself off.
You get thrown off.
You stay there. The moon will freeze over. The dirty wolves will get your daughters. Your soul will be devoured.
There is no resile from this. These are the last sounds you will ever here. Not pre verbal. Post verbal. Not primordial. What is left over. No easeful stupid death. Black noise. The sound of soul scraping rock
All
The
Way
Down.
