The Nithing

A curse siphoning strength from the blood of a newborn
 His marrow dry, Your feeble eyes fear the sun of the morn
 Your cries to God, devoid of faith, with all hope gone.
 A boiled skull of a mare staked to a pole
 The runes writ in blood will devour his soul
 The Nithing taketh place on hallows night
 I can't help myself, I feed off tears and fright
 His heart will pump in vain, his lungs shall flood
 So it has been written in a parchment doused with blood
 So you seek out vengeance
 To mend your shattered heart
 Amidst decrepit and tattered scripts
 You might grasp at ancient wicked arts
 Your soul bereaved
 Your fate I'll weave
 Lest you forget
 to atone for your debt
 Deeper in lust
 Give me your trust
 For a soul bereaved
 All you can do is read
 Read for me
 The volumes of the dark
 Serve me well and your child will breathe anew
 This I swear to you