A poem that goes hand in hand with Arcane Dissonance. It explains the past, present, and future of the Gifted, well, sorta. In an abstract way. Enjoy!
Martyr
There is the lost, the dead, and the reckless
All crowned on thrones of bone, given a staff of power.
Invisible tendrils lurk at their feet
Coiling with greed and spite.
Most of us look straight through them
We do not care to see them wanting, coveting
To bring us down.
Under our skin we shudder.
And ignore the hissing threats.
All across the world is fighting
For knowledge, for revenge, for power, for the end.
We watch it unwillfully, outsiders to the norm.
Falsehood festers in its own beauty and influence
While fools over-zealously hunt the complex,
With their lusting hearts of ruin.
Making assumptions on elusive shadows
That are not theirs to catch.
Nor understand.
Jaded souls search for new leads,
Falling to hell in a craft of violet insanity
Twirling in the shaded hues of obsession
Words paint the landscape while the devil hides in righteous justice,
Manipulating morals and weaving webs,
Brimming with malevolence.
We all live by the rhythm the good sing by,
Pinpoint the questions and
Breed them till they consume us.
Don't die a martyr.
Live to lead the astray, fearful, and demoralized.
Be the start of a revolution,
And the end of a tragedy.
Given a throne in history
A red crown circling your head.