In the heart of darkness.
In the heart of night.
You may have met me there.
The wind runs through me.
Standing in front of the moon.
Speaking in dead tongues.
Pulling the coins from the mouths of the dead they are not ready to pass into Elysium.
Looking into the moon and feeling its draw.
Something stirring under my skin I hear a calling.
Drawing a triangle in the sand with slit finger and blood.
Power unknown to the hands of men.
Scrawling in the air patterns of power.
Emotions doing the pushing, casting feeling, tasting.
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