The Weakling Poem by Goar Fredriksen

That skinless one
Spell behind prison of the echos,
hanging upon carnal precipice,
Why can't those countless be?
let this vision appear
into your ceaseless sleep,
let them dun you of trace
to'grav geit',
let that forgotten glee...
already turned into obscured
one, left numb...
awaiting beneath the vaults
of flayed middle ages,
with olden persistence,
so patiently bare
one's teeth in front
of warriors of humiliated crucifixion,
in front of lascivious sermons
of poor wizard hypnotized by embers
in the eyes of thee impaler king,
and enthralls whose wounded dignity
were silently drip, in front of withering
seasons which are lingeringly asperse
with searing fear scarred black hearts
of the empresses immersed in virgins blood
that does not cherish passing blee...