A Quiet Hunger

The firstborn shall stir beneath the earth's oldest wound,
The veil shall thin, and death shall walk in hunger.

He, whose name was cursed before language,
Shall rise from the womb of ash and bone,
Eyes like void, heart like famine, breath of plague,
The original, untouched by time or mercy.

No mortal shall kill, no priestess curse, no fanged rebuke him-
For he was made in the absence of God,
Forged in the betrayal of light itself.

Only the child of Twilight, forged between pulse and grave,
May hold the shard of the final dawn-
But even they must choose; salvation... or vengeance

When the shadows lengthen without sun,
And the dreams fill with fangs,
Know this: the world has already begun to end

So it is written.
so shall it bleed.

*New Chapter ever other Sunday