Altars of our Black Cult

What is sacred in your mundane world
For me the answer is clear
All that is, all that is not
Everything is cursed in this sphere

The lingering shreds of arcane might
Mindlessly seeking control
Over streams of the original light
The deceivers' glory to extol

And your visions of the holy
Are little more than the comfort of flesh
Wrapped around your weakened soul
Delusions of a true god suppressed

The pathetic works of human hands
Monuments symbolising materialist ignorance
That perished before their era even began
The dying hopes of a predestined clan

What hope can man sustain
An animal relying on mere instinct
When no spiritual cnonections remain
And the incarnate is crowned as king

Stripped of hallowed attributes
Submissive and weak as a result
Leaving behind but carnal remains
The altars of our profound black cult