Swooping down from His ebony throne
An endless valley of souls crying from His feet
Striking down, rising back again
His only reward is His defeat
Scorning the heavy weeping that assault his ears
Slaying diffuses His mind
Goodness turns away in tears
While evil has had no greater time
Yet malevolence gives Him no smile
As he chokes away the breath of beings so sweet
For He stranges another piece of Himself
Leaving a mark, He wished he hadn't, in defeat
But the cycle of devastation continues
Interminably, forever at least
And the river of spirits fattens
While the beasts of wickedness hungrily feast
And He must listen to the mournful sobs
Of mortals asking why their beloved has risen
He looks at scarlet dripping off his murderous staff
Responding soullessly that the inevitable has been given
Turning away from misery that has been His own demise
Numbly, He watches bodiless spirits disperse
Enviously he yearns to be part of the screaming dead
Hating His immortality, His gift, His curse
