The rusted past opens its glassy eyes amid heaps of bones. The blood amber on colonial masts, not yet set, still seeps along the grain of the canvas; the mangled cries between concentration camp sleepers gnaw the rails into honeycomb; the blood and tears curled up in feudal homes still leave mold stains on carved wooden windows.
Every sin and suffering buried by time has been cast here into tangible, foul shadows.
They feed on the desires in human spines, scrape the blood-caked grime from the rings of civilization with their fingernails, and sip the bitter wine of a species' memories.
Look there: the way They whirl among the broken walls and ruins, how much it resembles poisonous vines from an ancient scroll, growing elegantly and madly. Yet what flows in Their eyes is plainly the phosphorous fire rising from an eternal execution ground, the hollow gaze staring up from a mass grave.
Star charts disintegrate into dust with Their every breath, and the beacons of old drown in blood-red swamps.
When the footsteps crush not pebbles but a prayer once buried alive, when fingertips reaching from the shadows still carry the lingering warmth of a branding iron from a hundred years ago, all the rusted sins rise from their coffins of time. Primal chaos surges like a collapsing nebula, grinding civilization's final glimmer into eternal night.
And Their songs seep from every crack in history, oily and viscous as tar, whispering of the past.
