Upon a table of weathered oak, where shadows weave their silent cloak,
A skull of midnight hue resides, with horns that curl in twisted tides.
Its sockets blaze with crimson fire, twin suns of wrath, of dark desire,
Each orb a forge of molten red, where embers dance and phantoms tread.
The skull is wrought of ebony stone, its surface etched with runes unknown,
A crown of malice, grim and grand, forged by some dread, unholy hand.
The horns, like serpents coiled in rage, spiral forth from an ancient age,
Their tips adorned with filigree, a latticework of tyranny.
Around it lie the tomes of yore, their pages cracked, their bindings tore,
Parchment scrolls in disarray, whispering secrets of decay.
The ink has faded, yet it speaks of curses deep and oaths that reek
Of blood and shadow, pact and pain, of sorcerers mad and kings insane.
One book lies open, its words aglow, in tongues that none but demons know,
"HOC EST Votum," it declares, a vow to powers beyond the stars.
Beside it, chains of rusted iron, links that bound some doomed environ,
A star-shaped pendant, cold and stark, a sigil of the endless dark.
The air is thick with dust and time, a sepulchre of grime and grime,
Yet in the skull’s infernal gaze, a spark of life, a hellish blaze.
Its teeth, a jagged, yellowed row, grin wide as if they surely know
The fates of those who dared to read the forbidden words that lie beneath.
The horns, like thorns of some great beast, twist upward, never to be released,
Their surface gleams with oil and sweat, a sheen of malice, cold and wet.
The skull’s brow bears a carven mark, a spiral deep, a void embark,
A glyph that pulses with the beat of hearts long stilled by dread’s deceit.
The table groans beneath the weight of knowledge cursed and scrolls of fate,
A candle stub, its wax long dried, lies spent beside the open tide
Of pages stained with ash and blood, where once a warlock’s pen had stood.
The skull, unmoving, yet alive, its eyes a furnace that contrive
To burn through flesh and soul alike, a sentinel of endless night.
Oh, skull of horn and fire’s breath, thou harbinger of pain and death,
What pacts were sealed beneath thy stare? What horrors linger in thy glare?
The books, they whisper of thy reign, of empires lost to endless pain,
Of summonings in moonless halls, where shadows answered to thy calls.
Thy presence chills the very air, a weight of dread beyond compare,
Yet in thy glow, a beauty lies, a terrible allure that never dies.
For in thy sockets’ burning light, there dwells a truth of endless night,
A poem carved in bone and flame, a testament to thy dark name.
The scrolls, they curl like dying leaves, their edges frayed by time’s cruel thieves,
Yet still they hold the weight of lore, of gods forgotten, demons’ roar.
And thou, oh skull, with horns of jet, dost guard these truths with no regret,
Thy crimson eyes a beacon dire, a pyre of unquenchable firean fire.
In this tableau of grim repose, where knowledge rots and darkness grows,
Thou sittest, eternal, cold, and vast, a relic of a shadowed past.
The world may turn, the ages fade, but thou, oh skull, shalt ne’er degrade,
For in thy gaze, the void is near, and all who look shall know true fear.
A skull of midnight hue resides, with horns that curl in twisted tides.
Its sockets blaze with crimson fire, twin suns of wrath, of dark desire,
Each orb a forge of molten red, where embers dance and phantoms tread.
The skull is wrought of ebony stone, its surface etched with runes unknown,
A crown of malice, grim and grand, forged by some dread, unholy hand.
The horns, like serpents coiled in rage, spiral forth from an ancient age,
Their tips adorned with filigree, a latticework of tyranny.
Around it lie the tomes of yore, their pages cracked, their bindings tore,
Parchment scrolls in disarray, whispering secrets of decay.
The ink has faded, yet it speaks of curses deep and oaths that reek
Of blood and shadow, pact and pain, of sorcerers mad and kings insane.
One book lies open, its words aglow, in tongues that none but demons know,
"HOC EST Votum," it declares, a vow to powers beyond the stars.
Beside it, chains of rusted iron, links that bound some doomed environ,
A star-shaped pendant, cold and stark, a sigil of the endless dark.
The air is thick with dust and time, a sepulchre of grime and grime,
Yet in the skull’s infernal gaze, a spark of life, a hellish blaze.
Its teeth, a jagged, yellowed row, grin wide as if they surely know
The fates of those who dared to read the forbidden words that lie beneath.
The horns, like thorns of some great beast, twist upward, never to be released,
Their surface gleams with oil and sweat, a sheen of malice, cold and wet.
The skull’s brow bears a carven mark, a spiral deep, a void embark,
A glyph that pulses with the beat of hearts long stilled by dread’s deceit.
The table groans beneath the weight of knowledge cursed and scrolls of fate,
A candle stub, its wax long dried, lies spent beside the open tide
Of pages stained with ash and blood, where once a warlock’s pen had stood.
The skull, unmoving, yet alive, its eyes a furnace that contrive
To burn through flesh and soul alike, a sentinel of endless night.
Oh, skull of horn and fire’s breath, thou harbinger of pain and death,
What pacts were sealed beneath thy stare? What horrors linger in thy glare?
The books, they whisper of thy reign, of empires lost to endless pain,
Of summonings in moonless halls, where shadows answered to thy calls.
Thy presence chills the very air, a weight of dread beyond compare,
Yet in thy glow, a beauty lies, a terrible allure that never dies.
For in thy sockets’ burning light, there dwells a truth of endless night,
A poem carved in bone and flame, a testament to thy dark name.
The scrolls, they curl like dying leaves, their edges frayed by time’s cruel thieves,
Yet still they hold the weight of lore, of gods forgotten, demons’ roar.
And thou, oh skull, with horns of jet, dost guard these truths with no regret,
Thy crimson eyes a beacon dire, a pyre of unquenchable firean fire.
In this tableau of grim repose, where knowledge rots and darkness grows,
Thou sittest, eternal, cold, and vast, a relic of a shadowed past.
The world may turn, the ages fade, but thou, oh skull, shalt ne’er degrade,
For in thy gaze, the void is near, and all who look shall know true fear.
The Sunday Circle