Love nowadays is nigh ephemeral,
Rejecting this I yearn a bond illegal,
to the laws of the minds of men. Let me tell you of those beyond the sands,
who dwell in the sclera of eyes in the needle.
Hands of bleached bone outstretched, welcoming the nightfall and its powers.
Stemming from their darkened caverns etched into the sides of great hydrogen towers.
The Undead Lords; more ancient than thought,
eyes like emission nebulae alight in the gloom.
Silent, they drone forth atop bridges of solar wind
in cloth of stars, the dusky robes of doom.
Behold! Their blades aphotic, from the scabbards of fate.
Forged in the hearts of dying planets – tempered to enervate.
Not man, nor beast, nor cosmic deity
escapes their judgements, perverse.
Wrath of the Lords is singular.
Celestial ages they traverse.
Look now upon the edges of their vorpal swords shining with galactic dust.
Think no more of your coils of mortality, your dole shall seem unjust.
Grasp my hand and leap into entropy.
It is these edges from whence we came.
Together in the crushing embrace of the vacuum,
where we shall return again.