Secrets of Laceration

And half of its blossoms will be skin in the hue of a delicate flower. The other, whose smell is the smell of blood… strange incense it will bring: the foulness of a carcass. Descend, then, to the cellars of ceremonial sites. There, where the swine with red lips hang from hoofs… no man could look directly upon this display! So radiant with divine light, it would make man unable to see. The eyes of the saint - so pure, cold as ice - watching their lips groan inarticulate prayers. Speechless sorrow. Only the messenger could observe how, life swine, they sang for the glory of death. Meanwhile, men fled life mice with eyes blurred from tears and blinded by sheer disbelief. Deafened by the messenger's dreadful oration, shivers caused by the reflection in the eyes of the saint. And now, they sing only in the form of death rattles. Only the eyes of the saint could observe the divine glow: the display of revelation.

Submitted by Morgoth — Apr 25, 2025

Amidst the fields of revelation, surrounded by the lacerations within existence. This wasteland, now cured of the human pest, is newly born and still untouched by the plague-spreading shepherd’s hand. When the human fennel was shattered, the last of the trained and castrated species crawled on all fours – bemoaning their unfortunate fate, as if they had nothing left to look forward to. The order that lesser forms of man wanted to create was merely a mockery, constructed by flaws of the tamed mind. Their hands and feet bleeding like the stigmata – pierced with thorns and sharks from crawling on all fours, whilst bemoaning their unfortunate fate. Fearful of evolutionary chaos: a cold horror of emptiness beyond comprehension. Rot sanitised and cleansed in accordance to demands from the swarming men. The allure of joining the choir of desperation and torment, acknowledging divine truth too real to turn the blind eye to. Amidst the fields of revelation, surrounded by the lacerations within existence. This wasteland, now cured of the humane pest, is newly born without the flawed promises of the Son of God.

Submitted by Lake of Tears — Apr 25, 2025

The light that burns is the torch of the new light-bearer. Nothing good will come from gathering within its scorning flame. … the human moth. Like human moths, attracted to the blinding light, thou wilt be one with pain and anguish. Burnt skin peeling from your face – empty, ash-filled eye sockets that perceive darkness identical to light… eternity. Burned and gasping for your last remaining breath, you will see all there is to be seen. These self-slaughtered human moths, is there a price for their death? And how should that price be paid? Resignation? Like human moths, attracted to blinding light, thou wilt be one with pain and anguish.

Submitted by Immortal — Apr 25, 2025

The sheer noxiousness of their hopes and unavailing remedies, those who adopt truths incompatible with their nature. Transformation of descension to be subpar to the former self? Apologize for existence and follow the route to submission? An intolerable swindle one should reject with scorn! How could anyone accept such an apprenticeship of passivity? Only when cemented into the wall of a charnel house! Only when the urn is thrown into the depths of the seas and disappears forever. In fear, they will tear down and burn the signs of might. Should anything remain, they know we will disinter the remains of prophets... that relics will fuel the rebirth of devotion. Relics will fuel the eternal march. The remains of prophets, restlessly issuing commands. The remains of prophets... magically undead, restlessly issuing commands.

Submitted by Finntroll — Apr 25, 2025

Towers were built to reach the skies and a million years‘ worth of history set on fire, all to serve the needs of unsatisfied thirst and endless devourment. This grotesque display was turning into malicious enjoyment. For centuries, tormented people worshipped their leftovers and viewed themselves as if they were gods who had un-done Creation – who rose against their former gods. Finally conquering the infinite, yet little did they know... Suddenly, the last men were turned into ashes and the world became quiet. All the greatness and worst defamations of existence combined – from all the signs of the titans‘ rule to the endless surplus of human mud, there was nothing else to be found than an insignificant stripe in the sediment.

Submitted by NecroGod — Apr 25, 2025

On whatever you touch, scar tissue will be found. With flesh made wholly of wounds, they have met anguish with resignation and made their peace with shame. So, what might avail thy consolation? But the howling herd proclaims: remember the martyrs! Remember the infants thrown into the pits. Remember the crimes that will never go unmourned, and weep for the holy pillars that cracked. They are too lost; thy pity shalt not make them truly intact. They are too lost, thy pity shalt only make them glorify peace with shame. What might avail thy consolation, Lord? The Lord who threw infants into pits; the Lord who birthed crimes that must never go unmourned. The Lord who cracked the holy pillars that upheld the world.

Submitted by Lake of Tears — Apr 25, 2025

Having lost the key to quietude, now only access the secrets of laceration. Instead of letting it erode us gradually, we decided to go time one better: to add to its moments our own. This new time – grafted onto the old one, this time elaborated and projected – soon revealed its virulence. Objectivised, it became history! A monster we have called up against ourselves, a fatality we cannot escape. Mastery in the art of thinking against oneself... siding with our dangers to broaden the sphere of our diseases, to acquire existence by division from our being. To some, a symbol of failure... a proof of imperfection, consistutes for us the sole mode of possessing – of making contact with ourselves. We were born to die in flames. We sing the praise for secrets of laceration!

Submitted by VladTheImpaler666 — Apr 25, 2025