The First Three Circles Of Hell (Epitaph For The Disfigured)

Pain like the separation of limbs,

A severed remnant, distal, penitent,

Purulent waste in a vessel of mortal abominance,

Septic, foul and impure....

Little left but a remnant,

To lay waste upon Acheron's dismal shore,

Little left but a remnant,

To lay dormant, to perish and degrade,

Like a harvest of flesh, to inherit a plague,

A decrepitating relic, life has left these languid veins,

Immortal spirit, has left these languid veins,

Pain like the onset of mourning,

And the commencing of torment, a condemnation,

To a myriad of penance, an inferno of grief ablaze,

Words and screams imbued, rise in a coil of tumult,

Fashioned after the likeness of God,

So supremely foul and retched,

Culled of divine bone and of the divine flesh,

Truly begotten in sin, brought forth in iniquity,

Placed on earth to suffer and to die,

Here is more pain than ever I could imagine,

It lies in oceans and mountains, pain in its multitude,

Vast and lavish in it's unending darkness,

Vivisection unbound, insatiable is this agony passion,

A feast of excruciation, deepest red this blessed stream,

That flows through eternity,

Lacrimae rerum ad infinitum,

An ashen offering of a lachrymatory hell,

A meagre sacrifice for God's of atonement,

Flagellant, sadistic and cruel,

Limbs hanging elegantly in the shade,

Of this bleeding flesh mountain,

Pain like the everlasting palsy,

And the emetic sickness of which is existence,

A hollow mannequin, incomplete, unfulfilled,

Lying in pieces,

Little left but a remnant,

As ash in the grates of purgatory,

Little left but a remnant,

Little left for you to behold,

A bleeding monument, and epitaph of disfigurement,

Little left for you to grieve, little left for you to weep.