There the orange sits in its ticking
Always clicking, clockwork ticking.
Time has passed, the ticking faster
Yet still slowing and the Master
Recoils from repulsive sight
Organic clockwork, damnéd blight.
Abomination not to be
Forbidden fruit enticingly
Calling out to be embraced
By servants dark. The Light outpaced
Sheds little glow for Hope to see
And as the shroud falls totally
A show of horrors old and strange
Arrives on steeds which laugh, deranged.
The circus tents bloat up and rise
to blot the starshine from our eyes.
Within their folds a wretched thing
Writhes madly in the center ring.
The audience of yesteryear
Returns once more to laugh and jeer.
Throughout the crowd stalk faceless fiends
With sickles sheer and tattered wings
From which flow fear of pain and death
Yet sweet nepenthe is their breath.
And so about them throngs the horde
Forgetting he who was their Lord.
Without the light of thought within,
Succumbing wholly to their sin,
They prance about the piteous being
Who, in his throes, begins to scream
A cry devoid of Hope or Light
That echoes in the hellish night.
It howls until soundlessly
Its soul slips through the agony
Away to where the Light still glows
While at its corpse the twilight shows
The ancient rite begin to wane.
Having done that for which they came,
The faceless fiends away as one
And now the terror has begun,
For lacking that which banished thought
The crowd knows truly what they've wrought.
So weeping they fall in the mud
Dirt moistened by the ritual's blood
And in the pools of sinful wrong,
They lie until their breath is gone.
And only Darkness stalks the night
Fore'er extinguished is the Light.
Above, the Master softly weeps
As underneath a Nothing creeps.
He leaves his world to ever stay
A tomb for life that can't obey.
Within sepulchral shroud of death,
Where Nothing lives to take a breath,
A ticking sound falls to surcease.
Fallen creation's final peace.