#wormgame

"Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead to share with the worms that gather in the darkness and surround the world with the power of their lives while from the dimlit halls of other places forms that never were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw what could have been. In the black water with the sun shining at midnight, those fruit shall come ripe and in the darkness of that which is golden shall split open to reveal the revelation of the fatal softness in the earth. The shadows of the abyss are like the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand the mind beyond what any man can bear, but whether it decays under the earth or above on green fields, or out to sea or in the very air, all shall come to revelation, and to revel, in the knowledge of the strangling fruit—and the hand of the sinner shall rejoice, for there is no sin in shadow or in light that the seeds of the dead cannot forgive. And there shall be in the planting in the shadows a grace and a mercy from which shall blossom dark flowers, and their teeth shall devour and sustain and herald the passing of an age. That which dies shall still know life in death for all that decays is not forgotten and reanimated it shall walk the world in the bliss of not-knowing. And then there shall be a fire that knows the naming of you, and in the presence of the strangling fruit, its dark flame shall acquire every part of you that remains."

Lo! ’t is a gala night   Within the lonesome latter years!   An angel throng, bewinged, bedight   In veils, and drowned in tears,   Sit in a theatre, to see   A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully     The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high,     Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly—   Mere puppets they, who come and go   At bidding of vast formless things   That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings   Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure     It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore     By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in     To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin,     And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout,   A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out     The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs   The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs   In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all!     And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall,   Comes down with the rush of a storm,   While the angels, all pallid and wan,     Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”     And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.