The Monk Is Weak.
Growing Older.
Strength slowly ebbing,
& flowing away in rivulets.
Tributaries;
To swirling whirlpool eddies,
Of My Black Ichor Venom.
Thick As Tar.
Drinking The Monk’s Soul,
Like Cold, Fresh, Glacier-Runoff Rivers.
Couldn’t stop The Wyrm.
World Serpent.
Apocalypse In Slow Motion.
Thick As Tar.
