The stones lay at Life's bidding,
mere dragon's breath churns the soul.
Loathing in fear will preserve you nothing.
Tis, the words of the old sage,
with a sword gashed in his back.
Jackals Howell as vixens hiss for yearning.
the Man of constant vision, of truth is burning.
The night belows and the moans in sheer infamy.
Being a thought that niches in the passage of intent.
The man swallows and holds his anxiety strong.
Purging forth into the flame of sorrow. Courage is his last resort as he contemplates,
the truth of his quest and the tide of times.
Ghouls of the walking sort plague his path.
Only acceptance of their Plight, seeks him free.
Apollonian thoughts of reason are faint.
In his recollection of his past life,
Now he must stand to his creator, to the hand that binds his soul,
let alone his mind.
Knees collapse and hope is lost, fear beckons and anxiety rises,
