Spoils That Await The Wicked: One

One: The Dark Seed

In the silent voice of a bent conscience,
A thought stirs softly like a snowflake
falling from stormy clouds.
Unlike a snowflake which falls pure,
this thought grows from the rot of malice.
It lingers about, as that snowflake would
On skin, before it melts away.

The restless form of deceit shifts silently.
Not fully awake, it dreams in wondrous lucidity
of obscene impurities growing like mad cancer
across the world of man.
It dreams of those inhabitants,
going about their mundane business,
blind to that which waits in their ever darkening future.

So eager they are,
to kiss the hand of any
who shows himself as He.
Follow the hircine one they do,
Like lost dogs who long for a master.
Hammering the nails into their own coffins,
and laying low for eternity, cast into wax.

The terrible thing stirs,
A subtle voice ushers forth,
and crawls among the masses.
It twists into souls,
whispers creeping lies
and blackens hearts.
Putrid hearts open to the wretched of the wretched.

They broke bread in unholy glory
Of the thing that slumbered.
Such was formed the first following.
Writ in blood and carved on stone.
Passed by generation upon generation.