Presence anew, one day betrothed,
Of fire and brimstone and others untold.
Its eyes in burning and hair unknown,
For we cannot imagine this throne,
In which that he ponders alone,
And has no friends to call his own.
All bemoan as he enters,
Friends had are embers.
King of his land and sovereign to death,
He exists only to steal your breath,
And pierce your heart in ways untold,
That he nor you have ever known.
Crimson and opal adorn his haven,
And a crest of horns bedecks his head;
Made from the living, made from the dead.
Intensity and intrigue, and temptation galore,
But concede to his tongue and be forever glamoured,
By the tip of his trident and the heat of his palace.
Oh, lost one, can you not see his malice,
While you stand here beside this sadist,
And listen to these lies he so boisterously presents,
About life, eternity, and heaven’s regrets.
He has been created only through man,
That his stories have been told from one to another,
And have justly been rediscovered,
Through avid recreations so discreetly represented,
That he has grown with his creators’ fear,
And power untold until the year,
That he will come, and all will come to fight the war,
In which only one will remain -
The supreme, the victor;
The conqueror.