Category: Writers Block
He moves on, relentlessly changing
The ways we see and understand,
He moves on, continually warping
The ways and works of our mortal hands.
He glows with a halo of bright power,
But only darkness is the heart of the poisoned flower
That he creates, that he makes,
That with his bloodstained hands he shapes.
He turns you on a spinning wheel,
Making you in to his tearstained tapestry,
He moves your thoughts as he wills,
Tainting all that lies in memory,
Staining all that may come to be.
He sits in a high place,
A dark and cold and empty space,
Filled with bright and hollow faces
Behind the sun's thoughtlessly cheerful face.
He speaks of glory and power and conquest,
Yet he was never the brightest or the highest,
Merely the image of the darkest and meanest
Things that we can dredge up from the echoing recesses
Of our flawed, unseeing mortal souls.
He lives through works of madness,
And builds his realm on the sadness,
And tears and misery of uncounted lives.
He betrayed all over which he presides,
Stitching shut your willing eyes
With threads of secrets, silence and lies.
You will not see in time
What he has stolen from your mind...
Shame! shame! the Chronicler cries,
For in the future, in madness and lies,
His poisoned spirit withers and dies,
Condemned to eternity by those who describe
The reflections of his deceiving eyes...
Erg, take out the only in the poisoned flower line. Why can't I edit this? I didn't notice it in review. *cries* The flow is broken.