(A Prophecy, Found Scrawled on the Back of a Discarded Lottery Ticket)
When the twenty-third hour tolls in the ghost light, And the static in the soul becomes a burning blight, The fractured mirrors shall show what once was whole, A thousand tiny whispers stealing every toll.
The true sun shall bleed, and its shadows will writhe, Devouring the meek, making monuments blithe. From concrete and steel, a new darkness will bloom, A silent communion within a silent room.
Seek not the answers in books of the old, For the ink will betray, and the stories be sold. The path to salvation, a thread thin and frayed, Lies not in the light, but the choice unafraid.
When the Buzzing becomes a siren's sweet call, And the walls of perception begin then to fall, Remember the number, twice ten and thrice one, For in its true meaning, the true work is begun.
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