There is a planet

Known to all the stars.

Its clouds are dense, and its core is dark.

And a strange creation,

My private abomination,

Is living inside.

Yes, Gran Chinche is alive.

He patrols the amber skies,

Lesser beasts blinded by the bloody mist

That rains forever,

From his perpetual feast.

Yes, the sky is stained

With the generations pinched

Between his ebony pincers,

They choke on the death-spray

Of their fallen kin.

Gran Chinche,

Unholy Emperor

Whose cobalt encasement

Is acid-proof.

His infernal underbelly

Is matted with the crushed guts

Of his family and prey,

Long since dead.

And who is like you,

Gran Chinche?

I channel your image from

The abysmal dimension

Of Janannam,

Where the ground is littered with

The vestiges of your last

Murder spree.

You are foul

And disgusting,

As marvelous as ever a beast could be.

Gran Chinche commands

The Sanguine Storm,

And it rages forever,

On a planet

Much closer than

The nightmare you embrace

In his wake.




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