Silence and comfort,
in the deepest part of chaos’ orifice.
I cut my veins with broken glass,
pour the blood on the altar of Erebus.
Drained I collapse like an old pillar,
Hypnos slowly takes my dreams.
Phantasos weaves his illusions,
Phobetor ensures I scream.
Some may call it torture,
but to build, something has to break.
Once the end is in sight,
one must do whatever it may take.
Even if the heavens roll and crumble,
from Atlas’ mighty shoulder.
These deep, dark thoughts must flow like Styx,
eternal and never to wither.
Voices inside my head must echo,
like violent thunder from the house of Zeus.
Lightning must fall from the tip of my tongue,
to either harm or amuse.
Dionysus may raise a cup,
and pour his bounties on this privileged land.
But what purpose does it serve,
when I am a victim of falling sand?
Time may take its toll,
but this cold-blooded quest must ensue.
Hades’ flames cry out,
the screams of the dead are long overdue.
Reality is a nightmare,
this world of horrors feels like home.
Eyes blinded from daylight,
tranquility within this ancient catacomb.
Within these thoughts I am free,
to do or say as I please.
This forbidden land is my Olympus,
I manipulate it with ease.
It may be foolish,
to discard the whole world and throw it aside.
But these illusions must be expressed,
to reveal all the demons I hide.
The Void Of Nothingness 