This is the dying of the light
This is when all things turn to night
This is a peace that shall be kept
For the dead man cannot object.
There will be a great cry over all
And the last great wonder shall fall
The last great man will wonder
As the world is torn asunder.
He will stand on a green grass hill
Nothing according to his will
But he will ponder the life eternal
As all becomes nocturnal.
The dead will rise and the live will die
They will turn to dust with a sigh
And all the necromancer can do
Is see it all right through
For though he is the man of death
He is still, nevertheless, of health
He is of life and breath and blood
And not of ash, but of mud
A mud that was made eons ago
In a volanic pit moving slow
A soup of biology and fleshy cells
That were born in the mouth to hell.
So this time that is to come to pass
Will come at the era of the second last
And when the last second ticks by
All the living will surely die.
Excepting he who lives beyond
Who lives with death, in death's song
But he will not be able to control his fate
Instead it will be forever too late.
Instead the necromancer will be alone
Not able to die, but still of flesh and bone
Thus he will be of two worlds, and none
Like passion caught between moon and sun.
He will worship the night and the day
Nothing good coming his way
The death will avoid him, and so alone
He will live out eternity, on his own.
No comments:
Post a Comment