Son of the element
Master of wisdom
A forsaken lonely voice from deep shadow propagated realms
The impure blood of fools arisen
A father of the Ancient ice strewn age
Forgotten with despair ridden beings of calmer times
Life being a true antithesis of flesh and existence
All that really is are the echoes of immaterial voices of the past.
A symbolic Odinistic trial
A symbol of the universal sound
A few shreds of thought on an ellipsis of the cycle of final cycles
All that remains is the cold chill of oblivious, empty, nothingness
The cruciform crescent mooned evil.
Ian V. Seymour ©2011