Is Thy Name Written in the Book of Death?

Our names are the strongest demons, you know.

Is thy name written in the Book of Death?

The way thy art tends to the summoning of demons…
The way that sacrificial dagger rends pallid flesh, glimmering in thy hands…
The way blood congeals in the center of an unmarked room,
As it hears thy call to move and writhe with the breath of breathless life…

Why, I would not question, if told, that thy hand hath authored the Book of Death!
But, perhaps, thou forgot to write inside it, thine own name?

Tell me, O King of Beasts,
Is it believed, in thy rotting heart,
That each word is a demon?
If each word is a demon, then you must show me every demon you’ve held back,
Because I know that they swarm, coagulating in the tunnels of thy teeming brain.

Tell me please, if thy heart could spare the truth:
Is my name written in that book?
For my name is just a word, only nothing, a mere trifle.

And, maybe, thy rotting heart is right—
What is a word, but a demon?
For when God struck down the tower of Babel, He laid waste to all the words we had made for ourselves.
New words were handed down from on High — sanitized, clean, devoid of all power and magic.
He had hoped, with the arrogance of gods
That he could exorcize all demons, and cast them out into the lake of fire.

But demons were not made by God.
Demons are the sons and daughters of the mortal earth.
Demons are the sinew and the muscle of our soul.
Demons are the language that we came out of the Void singing.

So, once more I ask, please, if you will…
Give that book to me, now.
Let me scour the folds of its pages, for…
Ah.
Thy name is writ right here, in the Book of Death, right next to mine…

Our names are the strongest demons, you know.
When death tries to swallow our names,
Our demons live on.
For no demon created can ever be destroyed.
God is the Void, 
And the Chaos
And the Light—
Demons are the only power over those things we have ever made.

When our thoughts are only ashes, 
Our demons will inherit the smoldering earth.