Gold and rimmed sorcerer victory

comes to you upon the backs of

black veiled faceless riders of

envy and hate.

Striking down the light struggling to

break into the knave's tiny, hopeless 

realm of dreamless tremors.

Hope fades as the slate clouds gather for

the vengeful onslaught against the senseless,

hopeless knave cowering beneath the stone in the

barren stretches of a mindless desert of despair.

The faithful servant, lost in the midnight forest,

groping about endlessly on bended knee,

bloodied and shredded by the razored edges of

decomposed love of fallen fiefs.

The gold and rimmed sorcerer striking about with

onyx bolts of poisonous lightning, summoning the

naked forces of shackled servitude, bent on

consuming the light, stealing it away to the sorcerer's

coffers, overflowing with the blood and souls of the

weak and voiceless simmering about in the

viscous ooze of indifference.

Breath departs the knave, reaching for the final

vestige of the hinting, fading, dying Western light.

"No dawn shall reach your soul, hapless knave,"

bellows the rasped shriek of the demonic sorcerer,

echoing through the forest of darkness.

"No light shall rouse you from the endless, 

wakeful dread of timeless, trembling restlessness."

Silence fills the sky with the deafening weight of

baseless trepidation.

"Submit, hapless servant! Denounce thy soul, offer

unto me your flesh, for it shall be salted to the depths

of eternal suffering. Suffering for heinous crimes of

hope and love, desire to grow outside the shadow of

thine Tower of Souls."

The spineless servant shivering in the midnight silence,

eyes bent upon the gathering black clouds raining down

icy shards of envious hate upon shoulders bent.

The dense weight snapping limb from limb, 

black flesh dripping green to satiate the

beasts thrashing about with jade claw and

golden jaw.

Soft white clouds contrive to muster on the wings of the Lotus,

struck down by the spiny hand wielding the black blade

dripping with Eastern promises.

Senseless knave, frozen in the gray stretches of sandless grains,

grasping for release, nailed and bound among the

outposts of the timeless plains. Antipodes of the soul

doused in the gathering black smoke rising from the

pit of the golden rim.

The servant shall know not the blissful glow of Love, 

Dream shall be waking, Night shall consume Night, 

Rest shall consume the hateful Love of a thousand

dayless desert's Blackened Suns.

Gathering forces of the Eastern gold and darkness,

poised upon the ridge, slopes jagged and littered with

rotting souls of nameless, faceless slaves,

wretched and beautiful in the infinite tremor of

black and restless slumber.

The cloud armies of envy await empty words from the

barbed tongue of the gold and rimmed Master.

Blind forces bend to the Master's will, 

wielding his lustful hate, splaying through the 

dark velvet mist, daring not to break the bonds of

envious service.

No dawn shall come to those chosen to worship at the

feet of the soulless Master...