First comes the bleeding, visions dripping red,
hallucinations sprawling, entangled in my head.
Voices no throat should utter, whispers of the damned,
spectral hands sculpt nightmares, in this no-man’s land.
Next, the haunted flesh, a canvas raw and torn,
with every pulse, the shadows of old gods are born.
Occult prayers spill from lips that crack and bleed,
chanting secrets of a dark, forsaken creed.
In this gallery of madness, each piece a fractal of decay,
ten slabs of soul’s corrosion, where light is led astray.
Bleed with me in visions, haunt in fleshly guise,
speak in tongues forbidden, as sanity defies.
Then come possessions, an inward, rotting blight,
spirits coil within, a dance of death and blight.
My soul a battleground for entities that crave,
the husk of my being, a vessel they enslave.
Conjured from the shadows, feral beasts lie in wait,
unspeakably patient, they orchestrate my fate.
Their presence lingers, thick as the blackest night,
in the void they whisper, crafting fright from spite.
No return from this journey, each step a deeper dive,
into the madness sculpted, where only shadows thrive.
Ten tales of the pit, each more deranged than last,
in the theater of the macabre, we’re players, ever-cast.