by Nick Gisburne
He hangs them by the neck, out in the field
The old, the young, the innocent, all die
Their fluids drained, the carcasses are sealed
And studied with a pale, unblinking eye
In seven moons they ripen and they rot
Each body splits to birth a crimson seed
He pounds the harvest in a grinding pot
And smiles to see them blending as they bleed
The septic paste soon thickens into wax
And into this he dips a twisted wick
The candles, carved with cryptic runes and tracks
Are fitted to a crooked candlestick
The warlock lights them quickly with a spell
And follows where they lead him, into Hell
