Reign of the Righteous

“Lazokar, Lazokar, let the empire rise.”

Deep within the Balkans

sits a crowned shadow –

eyes fathomless, the spirit of a warrior.

Wrought by the cruelty of a world lost to chains,

he has vowed to never be weak again.

~*~

Lazokar, Lazokar, no longer a slave.

Lazokar, Lazokar, his own sovereign.

Chilly spring brought the promise of a new horizon.

A daemon strange danced and sang in red lace.

A daemon strange evoked the taste of an old crave.

And she danced, and she said,

“Lazokar, Lazokar, let the empire rise”.

~*~

Deep within the Balkans

sits a crowned shadow –

eyes fathomless, the spirit of a warrior.

Holding the hand of a fiend of war,

the empire shall rise wise and energised.

Shrouded by dark that turns into light,

the king burns with faith renewed

in a world of made delight.

~*~

Daemon Red and Shadow Crowned orchestrate and pirouette.

In every breath, they sing and say,

“Let the empire take in upmost eminence”.

~*~

And if there were to come a time

when oblivion sieges the black sovereign,

the daemon fierce still will stand –

still will vocalise,

“Lazokar, Lazokar, let the empire rise”.

In soulful bane night,

the daemon red still shall slay the enemies of the crown –

spreading the venom of liberty for all frailty to chock down.

Ave Dolor – Joy of the Damned

Dyad of faithful carnage —

dreadful muse of hidden talents amidst

the sight that blunders and mouth that blabbers!

If you must expunge this hoary heart, do it proudly.

You promise me the grave when dawn arises,

yet you elevate me through the air with laughter in every silence.

Erratic educator,

you’re the ambrosia for which gods rage afire —

an excuse to bedrink the sap of madness

and energise the being with nefarious kindling.

Nurturing vampire!

Illusion of lower handling!

In behest of passion passing,

tell me why you have conceived me

in the foul womb of your parent!

I disdained and disowned you.

I curse and love you.

Dyad of slaughter,

the field is paved with the deeds of your courage.

Have you no shame!

Descend from the aethers to say that you’re sorry!

These tears are the fruit of your dear screech —

the jewel purifier and alchemy of travelers

who confine themselves to find what they already lavish.

O Source of Refinement!

Forgive the ramblings of this bitter ancient child.

Hold me to your bosom of a million udders,

and do not shudder when I behead you with a scalpel

after the fumes of your empire have driven me wild!