A Watcher's Weave

What is this I'm dreaming of?
nothing exists except the screams and blood
lumberjacks preparing for the season's cuts,
no matter what the magician's secret was,
all we have left are these memories of love
underground, one can never see what's above,
stars and pentagrams, bars forged in forbidden lands
scars from winter stand dark on pebbled skin,
hellish voices, weapons pointed at my devilish twin
dark and collected,
fresh from corrections, our messages question sin
who are the gods you worship when my creator is within?
my pen scrapes craters and pits across papers as scripts,
Sith treat hate as a gift,
even as it burns, it elevates and lifts
the gates of consciousness,
like sound, it waves and shifts
settled by exchanging graves for fresh clips,
expressions on stone faces,
always remember, our souls always exist...