Yearning for the souls of quietude —
for the eyes that with wisdom overflow in mystic waterfalls —
I sigh and hum atop a mountain of hope.
I cast off the illusion that feeds off the blind gods
to be the wind that comes and goes
as I quest for the silken voices and bass tones.
The Sacrament at last
revealed its core to mankind.
The wraith slithered
to caress him at night,
and the Last Proof slipped away sad smiled.
The Paladin of Remembrance
to the walls dragged the stain
of her defiled heart.
The blood-bound one awoke
to the furious berceuse of the stars,
and, aghast, observed the kin fight
tearing hell apart.
And if she should bleed
for a well of miry shine,
unleash the storm
to drown her ‘lone.
Her fate is accurst,
and so is his who sits upon the throne.
Incarnate the grief of her,
who for wine imbibes blood
to die alive thirty centuries,
chained to the vicious masked satire.