• The one who sits upon the brink,
    Of the gaping hole that stares from within his soul,
    Gazes into its depths,
    Pondering the acts that gave it life,
    Birthing monsters of horrid nature,
    Who clamber its walls,
    Screeching for more,
    While reaching for the boy whose bloodied clothes,
    They tore,

    Unable to lift his gaze,
    Nor close the door which rushing winds carry spells,
    To dig deeper the pit upon whose edge,
    He rests,

    With garments torn and destroyed,
    He now stands revealed,
    With his corrosive nature for all to see,

    In shame he leans back,
    As to fall and hide,
    Talons reaching forth,
    Clasp his form to which he was torn,

    With the sun setting on the horizon,
    Wisps of darkness now rise,
    As evil creatures claim their prize,

    The soul of this forgotten boy,
    Shattered and crushed with torches ablaze,
    Joined with the mind that led his days,

    Writhing in agony,
    As down his throat,
    Molten lead is poured,
    While healing hands make him stay,
    In the dungeons of his own,

    Evil shadows lurk,
    Among them joined the hordes in night's terror,
    “Gather his guests for the feast” their master said,

    Knives whose blades knew only torture,
    Sliced through his skin and fat,
    To where within him lead nuggets lay,

    Gutted and stuffed,
    Upon a turning spit he roasts over hell's flame,

    The twelfth watch of the night,
    Now fills the winds with stale and foul ways,
    As creatures clothed themselves in the likeness of their feast,

    Upon bellowing claps of thunder and roaring winds,
    Fearless hordes silence,
    While fading harpies take to their wings,
    Screaming children's fears gush from their beaks,
    As burning blood drops shower over the roofless hall,
    While magma rushes forth from the tongues of ravenous guests,

    Upon the fifth watch,
    The gates to the abyss open their maw,
    Sighing with jets of scalding steam that settled across the dance hall,

    To the roof the burning fog clung,
    As the master leaped from the pitch black grave,
    That resides within the glowing embers of every beast that now sat at his table,

    As a woman's shriek resonated within those walls,
    Into the feast claws and talons tore,
    Bothering not with his screams of agony,
    Nor the pleas that dripped down his sides,

    Casks filled with the tears pouring from eyes,
    Barrels filled never ending until the feast was over,

    Nothing more than broken and chipped bone,
    The boy could look on no more,
    For that was all he was,

    In kegs his tears remain,
    The mead of his own doing,
    Awaiting noon's pass,
    To when the shell falls to its knees,
    Upon its face it now pines away,
    Withering into dust,
    Carried upon the northern winds.