Come not unto me as the lamb,
But come unto me as the wolf.
THE OPENING OF THE VEIL
The road is long and dark and weary, cobbled with guilt that stretches into shame. It is the road along which all must pass when the flesh becomes the flower of the grave. And on either side of this winding road are fields rich and plentiful in fruit, but eateth not, for it is poisonous fruit which containeth the milk of the Gods. Beyond the fruit fields lie hills speckled with bright flowering blooms whose touch is death, for they are the souls of 'what would be' and they look not above for they look below, consumed by veiled virtue that is forever the chain about them. And beyond these, in ever-widening circles are the forests of 'those we have forgotten' for they are the meek who cloak their aspirations in deceit, and they tower as cathedral domes above the dark-loving mushroom tops of 'when we are again' who cluster in clumps of selfish pride and talk of 'things we shall do'. Yet nothing shall be acomplished by imperfection, for it is as a wheel in the form of a cone that turns repeatedly upon its own axis, and moveth not. And through fields and over hills; beneath forests and over mounds, are meandering footpaths that stray and appear as veins upon a corpse, for through them flow the dung of existence, once mighty in breath, but now a particle of dust blown upon its course by an ancient wind. And the dark forest opens its arms to the road, as if it were the sun rejoicing in the arms of the moon, or a mother cradling her child, or she-wolf suckling its young in the unfathomable pit, howling with despair into the darkness, for this is the place of tormented souls, and no happiness is there; no joy can penetrate the black restless boughs that caress the winding stream, angelic in its appearance. But the wings hath been torn from its crooked back, and lost forever. And it is the tears of confession from the prayers of the weak. There is a light that glows softly in curls and crescents, but no sound, for no wind can stir the tall grass of oblivion into song and no bird hath dared to part its beak, for this is the region of dreadful dreams... this is the silence of the damned!
At the end of the road, like a colossus, is a palace of stone that towers into the sky and reaches beyond the clouds. It is a black symphony of sound in stone, smeared by filth and slime. And yet all around, the scent rises and the scent falls, but never beyond those dread stone walls, splashed in the blasphemy and corruption of time's sins and sorrows. A chorus of breaking bones and unending screams lie beyond the large iron gates that drip with unspeakable wickedness, dark and cavernous, like an immortal cathedral of incarnate hate. And above the gates, written in the putrescence of 'those that were', is the word
Upon a hill, in view of the palace, there stood a tree. But this tree was not as other trees in the kingdom, for it was radiant with blossom and richly coloured leaves; leaves that never fall, that never turn nor change, for it is the tree of Life and Knowledge; the tree of the Holy Garden. And beneath its spread boughs, in its circular shade, sat the essence of wisdom in the form of a man, a holy man, in the unending trance of sorrow, for man and tree were one.