Non-Entity

In the fields of self adulation, ranged in gloom'ed array, it speaks in ten thousand thunders, an emptiness rent from the wound. So shrill is the trumpet to announce solitary array. It croaks its incessant wail, an emptiness rent from the wound. In the fields of self adulation, the ache of false hope takes shape. It whispers ten thousand thunders, lamenting in dismal woe. Amidst all the trembles and groans, senses and will lose shape. I croak an incessant wail, lamenting in dismal woe. Oh shadow of horror is risen. It forms this abominable void. It's birthed in the temple of draughts. It fashions these walls. Oh, cold silent horror on desolate mountain roams. In shriveling isolation, I fashion these walls.