The fiend stood before the threshold,
with a wicked gait.

High above the rooftops, with darkness
flowing from his cloak of nightmares.

The claymore cementing his sinister
disposition, neck crooked high.

Rage, his helm, that devilish crown,
slithering all the lies into me.

This throne, my flesh, he claimed again,
the marionette of his madness.

I walk heavy, with the burden of his pain,
swiftly he barrels through the jungle.

Through all the winding and weaving,
destruction has found its home within.

The King, his slave and the broken,
words are whats left to save us.

But he too, has stolen such things away,
for what am I without them.