At the seething and fiery center

He sits upon his ebon throne

Within his halls of darkness

Which no man has seen and survived the vision


Both blind and bereft of mind

He pipes unceasingly

And the notes that rise and fall in measured patterns are the foundations of all the worlds

Ever calculating in sound the structure of space and time


Were his flute ever to suddenly fall silent

All the spheres would shatter into one another

And the myraids of worlds

Would be unmade

As they were before creation


The flute of the blind idiot

Both makes and unmakes the worlds in ceaseless combinations

Spinning on the woven carpet of time


No creation without destruction

No destruction without creation


To unmake a thing is to make another

Each time a thing is made

Another is destroyed


Solo dallas


The idiot god on his black throne

Does not choose

What shall rise into being

And what should pass away

He cares only to maintain

his mindless unholy music of random creation and destruction


No living creature can look upon his face

And endure its terrible heat

And black radiance

That is like the reverberating unseen rays of molten iron

Which strik and burn the skin of those who would dare

Gaze into the countenance of the idiot god


Never does he recieve supplicants

In his black halls of uncouth angles and stranges doors

Nor does he ever hear prayers or answer them

Endlessly he pipes

And endlessly he devours his own substance

For his hunger is insatiable

As he consumes his own wastes after the customm of idiots


As he creates

So he destroys