A tawny force a’canting,
in a melancholy spire,
does cry and waver, ranting
among blackened souls afire.

The split and crackle churning,
always wrought by leavened hale,
attempts to quench the burning
in a mixed-up, sundry tale.

By sultry fates asunder,
those calamities do gaze
into most guarded plunder,
only whets desire to raze.

Waking chaos few survived,
glimmered through the murky none,
wetly splashed and yet deprived
of kismet forever done.

Yet ’till doomsday wreckage spins
‘round a maelstrom whelp of Bane.
Opaque visions dead, begins
an oblivion of pain.

The defiled, wracked and cross,
addled images of bone.
Hazy memories of loss,
the pariah stalks alone.

The winding path of solice,
seeking knowledge of the wise,
wanders he, void of malice,
fully prescient; no surprise.