Her Portrait of Crimson
A poem by:
Mordecai Thrice
The dark side of the moon shines tonight
She, the maiden, awaits me in her gothic abode
Voices in my head tell me to run
'Was the Nemesis' presence not enough to warn you?'
It screams inside my skull
But I choose not to believe
'Just let her crawl into her casket, never to awake'
"But, yet, the Phoenix is made of persistent ash
And even ash can suffocate
If the end is so near, where are the Horsemen?"
The main event is my punishment
Where no Sacrament can save me
No hope, only this dark sin
And so, she, the maiden, waits for me
The blaze is consuming us both
But still we hold to each other
We hold to flesh as if that will save us from Hell
But flesh is weak and Hell is not
Her dark palace is descending into the Lower Levels
A place from which return is foreign
Taken in this false crusade is blasphemy
The Horsemen charge down the hill towards the castle
Shouting out this creation's ruin from the housetops
So, amen to the people who think they can escape
Amen to you, oh crusaders,
Begging for a crusade in which to die
Amen, indeed
The last of daylight is now covered from view
Darkness is replaces the maiden for whom I sacrificed all
I see that the only thing I embrace is a skeleton, dead, decaying, and making me sick
And now, if only I could go back
I would scream at those in my footsteps
I would scream at them to see the death that is, of course, to come
For now I suffer the pains of hell with only my conscience
Saying 'I told you so, you fool'
Although I was taken in sin, I am tortured alone
Inscribed on my casket would be the words,
"Do not lack foresight, for you create the future every day.
The maiden that waited for me has left me to my demise.
Nothing is worth the price of sin for you or for Him."