Twisting their ****** words into terror
These men and boys who call themselves poets
I cast them down with the power of my voice!
Leaving them but ashes beneath the noise.

My words will carry the death and the doom
Spreading the blood from room to room
I'll end them all and their horrible words!
I'll see to it that they never give birth.

An end to the generation, corrupted by lies!
Their intelligence and wit shall not suffice
My punctuation is perfect, my words are precise,
My power alone shall give birth to demise!

And when it has ended, and when we're alone
We poets of power shall not grieve for the dead
Nor shall their names be engraved in stone
For we are the chosen, we live in their stead.

In the long forgotten sands at the end of the Worlds
By the sea where the long forgotten souls swirled
Beneath the long forgotten sky of long forgotten memories,
I saw my own face, staring back and shimmering.

Standing in my own ashes, long forgotten but existing
No longer fighting and no longer resisting;
I've long forgotten every reason to be
Lost in this oh-so long forgotten memory.

Remember to forget and forget to have forgotten
All things lost, every little thing rotten,
Frozen somewhere between logic and belief
Lost somewhere outside happiness or grief.

Standing in my own ashes, though never knowing why
Never knowing how I lived, never knowing how I died;
I go down and float in the sea of long forgotten souls
Long forgotten among these long forgotten shoals.

I've been waiting for signs of God
Is this world where isolation bears hope
Can I survive His smiting rod
In light that I am of true evil?

Fearing not the man for he does not exist
I am oh-so stubborn in this quest
If you say yes, then I will say no;
Condemned but so unlike the rest.

Ashes to ashes, but dust won't be dust
If you go there then I will go back
This belief so old though it bears no rust
I am determined to find my resolute.

Shall I say I was wrong if I were right?
Will I be smote and burned in the light?
I think not, instead I will lay in the night
My eyes eaten out by the worms.

But if I am wrong and I do find a Christ
Have no mercy on me, for I am malign.
Though I quested long this man to find
In the end I cannot say I did not expect to die.

I stand in awe at the strong winds blowing
Hurricanes rising and tornadoes growing
Housing blown away and long hair flowing
Killing the crops of this year's sewing.
Stay strong, dear brothers; Strong in disaster
Stout in the winds that blow ever faster
Stay strong for your children, strong for your wives,
To get to the morning you must first traverse the night.

Reach into the depths of your throat,
Demon
And wretch forth the words of blasphemy,
Unweave
That which was said in ill possessed will,
Spoken
In the tongue thrown against our Lord.
Begone
Servant of Satan, Bringer of Death,
Vanish
In the name of the Father and the Son,
Amen.

Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.

A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.

He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.

He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.

He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.

Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.

But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king

The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.

Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.

Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.

Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?

It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.

But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.

In Summer's Season
Winter bites the neck of Spring
Doomsday Upon Us.

I cannot connect myself
Falling from this Earthly shelf
Plagued by ghosts, plagued by demons;
Death in every single season.
Ancient spirits in my wake
Telling me of what's at stake
Kissing me with pristine lips
Where only death there may sit.
The Fiddler sits upon my shoulder
Making it just that much colder
He sits and plays but does not speak
He sits and plays and only weeps.
And God, he sits upon the other
Speaking of evils he cannot smother
Sits and watches fools kneel down
Praying to a falsified crown.
And I, well I too weep with them
And speak of things that we condemn
Things we know we cannot change;
Looked upon like we're deranged.

I sit here with these fallen Gods
These drunken ******* and sunken Sods
These olden kings of another time
Upon a mountain we did not climb.

I sat next to Death
In a ***** and dark barn.
"Take a swig of ***
And taste the smoke, brother.
I'm cooking humans,
Like pine-nuts, in the cauldron. "

She said, smoking a pipe.
"In the dry and gray wilderness
Called 'life' I got them;
They are, like oysters, food:
The shells of flesh houses
Tasteless and slimy mucus,

The watery rheum of the soul,
That some God in there sneezed. "
"But such oysters have no pearls?"
My ambition asked.
"Nearly all, not" Death,
Chewing, belched:

“But the heart of some
Rots and inflammates in strange islands:
The dreams, the fantasies,
The most durable daughters of the soul;
But even such diamonds I break
And eat like peas porridge."

And at that I rose disturbed
By Death, who I could not trust
And went about my way.
"Come back soon, dear oyster."
Called the woman enrobed,
"For Death finds all, eventually."