Another door here, out in the fields of windswept barley, or the roots of an ancient tree, gnarled branches curling out towards the sky, or a city street lit only by the dim, flickering glow of a nearby lamppost. Here is where we come to worship the old one of ruin, the father to all motions that extend to the boundaries of existence, from whom the eons of time are measured and wrought. Here there is a tower, and a pit; and here we descend, down to the depths where he slumbers, the night-ridden master of dreams and the dark reaping of death. The tower rises from the whims of his dreams, now in the fields, or the roots of a tree, or a city street. Those places are venerated by his grace, and draw the dreams of those close to the pinnacle of that tower, a link between time and space to the slumbering presence of eternity.
As we begin our descent, every three steps we stop
To praise the glory of the divinity who is of three faces:
The face of glorious morning, the face of vibrant life,
The face of brooding dreams, a horrible judgement
As we continue our descent, every ten steps is a mural
Which depict the the sacred images of the three faces;
To the morning we salute, to life we bow our heads
To death we cross our hearts, and avert our gaze
At the bottom of the vast tower are the holy chambers
Here we take our seats, the places already set for us
For every miniscule passing of time has ordained this
And our masks are in place, the masks of mourning
As we call out in the dream world, the chosen will answer
They come here, the bottom of the tower; the door is here
They enter willingly, captivated by their unholy desire
And so we feast on them, and are sustained in time
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Such is the way of the world, and our worship,
Just as Death itself has decreed
The old man who slumbers, feeding on the life he gave, long ago
So that he may reap it in turn, and grind it in the wheel of time
Samuel Canerday 