The Dark Ritual of Rebirth

A vow forged in darkness.

The Dark Ritual of Rebirth

The damnable body,
once a temple turned tomb,
rotting beneath the weight of drink—
a cathedral of decay and rot,
veins clogged with poison,
muscles sagging like crumbling stone.

I watched her slip away,
her light snuffed by my own dark indulgence,
and something cracked inside—
a fracture sharp as a blade
carving through flesh and bone,
awakening a fury ancient and relentless.

Now I am hammer and chisel,
a sculptor of my own ruin and redemption.
The night is my crucible,
each breath a savage prayer,
each drop of sweat a baptism in fire.

I strip away the festering sludge,
ripping out the cancerous echoes of excess,
forcing sinew and marrow
into shapes brutal and unforgiving,
a monument to wrath and will.

My hands bleed with the effort,
my skin is torn parchment,
bearing scars like the glyphs of a dark ritual—
a language of pain spoken in iron and bone.

This flesh is no longer mine—
it is a fortress, a jagged citadel rising
from the ashes of shame and loss,
something monstrous, magnificent—
a shadow cast beyond human limits.

I vow, by the memory of her face,
never again to let this ruin claim me,
never to surrender to the slow rot of neglect.
I will be forged anew,
a being carved from agony and fire,
unrecognizable, unstoppable—
a testament to the fierce resurrection of the damned.