the church is empty and the graveyard is full

Through a broken window I could see the graveyard. The earth had been disturbed. Skeletal hands protruded from the soil, vomited upward by ground too full of viscera and memory, pleading toward a sky that had long since ceased to be merciful. Above them hung a spoiled yellow-purple heaven. And all the dead were moaning. Ancient ones, dry with centuries. Recent ones, still wet. Together they formed an anti-prayer of miserable noise — the litany of a Death that no longer wants its dead and has begun spitting them back into a world abandoned equally by saints and devils. This is bemoan. the church is empty and the graveyard is full. Industrial death / avant-garde dark ambient noise from Oregon, slowly decomposing in the cold. For ever and ever. Amen. -Sir Kuliktavikt