“Deep within a pock-marked chapel with cracked and occluded windowpanes / Withered ivy breaches the façade like consuming, pestilent varicose veins / Corpulent roots tear mottled floorboards and entangle with glee decaying pews / As spluttering light in copper braziers illuminate bodies in sallow hues / The congregation moan and shuffle, clutching their hands against their chest / While acrid smoke from burning censers coils in pools at the priest’s behest / An eerie thrum begins to vibrate, its violence smothering the crowd’s sharp cries / As shadowy figures approach the pulpit with fanaticism burning in their eyes / Khanus are here, robed and feverous, a rictus grin creases their face…” Death smiles at all of us.
