Oh Muse, please hear me now. Forgive those times I've sinned,
Against you, love, and art - and thus myself and man.
To you I am calling only at this late hour,
With the better part of my text now set out,
For in my foolish pride I thought that I solely
Was above the need for your revered guidance.
So I acted alone, casting off all advice -
Ignoring the words of wise teachers and friends
And the still-wiser words you whispered in my ear.
Humbled, I invoke you with head bowed and knee bent
(For if I surpass you, it's in hubris alone)
And request your favor as a tool of my art.
Antichrist has taken hold of me like a storm.
I live to do nothing but tell you its story:
The ending of an age, the crumbling of the roads,
And those cloaked ones who looked out on the ancient night
To see an infinite garden of forking paths,
Criss-crossing vast landscapes of terror and beauty.
Antichrist is the hour of dissolute chaos.
It's a convocation of night's bastard children:
Brave royals, calm and flowing, impassioned wanderers:
Those who carry fire across the night and run,
Shivering and shirtless, through dew-soaked midnight fields.
In time, this dark revolt may be its world's last hope.
Oh Muse, I stood before you completely humbled:
I knew not what to offer - for I feared that you would
Depart if I were too free with my love, my love.
But, alone, my power left me cage'd and poor.
Knelt and head-bowed I asked, "What can I give to you?"
You raised me up, speaking simply: "I want nothing."
Well then. Let us begin.