Past the shambling, faceless crowd

Where but the faithful are allowed

Runs a great and staircased spire

Drenched all in aphotic mire


Ascend the lift and thread the stair

Unto the court, if should thou dare

The nameless lord there sits the throne

Of primal fears and sepulchred bone


He speaks in voices, many yet one

And moves likewise; as candleabrum

He glows afire, with magnificent will

And centipedal ire, to consume the ill


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