Nekros Manteia - Slowly it Stains, The Foul Dye of Madness and Illumination

Tedious repetition
Merciless crushing motions hammer the frontal lobes
Paradigms interact with violent tongues
Soothing whispers entrance the diluted, shaking hands
The mind however, never asleep
(Always confronted with dripping questions
And sick, blatant disregard for logic)
Is not impressed, rather, it is compelled to disbelieve
A waking dream, a tired scream, a constant disapproval of arrangements
- Meaningless

Bizarre incantations bloom from the soil of the inner subconscious
Interpretations hover above the parchment
But between that which I see and that which I feel -
A great abyss opens up, caverns of teeth and claws!
In full regal glory, branching out
Crawling through layers of time and texture
A rising feeling of uneasiness compels me to paranoia

Rasping, merciless black ink drowns the pure living soul with clutching jolts
Thus a quill, and the ink lined therein
Acts as a vessel through which consciousness transcribes
Flowing thoughts and instant memories
The aftertaste of which can sting like hot wax on tender flesh

Obscure surrealism - a horrid proposal!
A force sliding my pupils backwards
Black, White, Grey
And none other, ever...
Thus the sigils entrance
Projecting their stares into my stare
The first glimmers from the tip of my tongue
Fresh acid, revealing writhing thoughts

A halo of scars rises with the dawn
A moving but worthless attachment to the earth
Pale horizons screaming in disgust
Accompany the mock trial
Herald the bleak reprise of a screaming season
Immortal colours dance, ten thousandfold
Mimic the mind's eye, evolve from shadow to shadow

Ink pours unto parchment, spilling everywhere
Dripping upwards
Seething into the ceiling, the hollow sky
The inner cloister of consciousness
The final resting recluse

A howl of revolt, of drunken science and bitter pulses...
Rorschach, your wings engulf me, flee this space
Flee this place of peace, leave tired minds to a tedious march
Confront the great barriers set up by mortal senses.

Apathy, the final conquest of still moments
Where years as seconds seem to drip away
Texture and depth now limitless
Sounds once new, now old, or not at all
Nothing is recognizable