Blessed are the weak, for in their weakness and knowledge of it, they are truth.
THE RAIN MAKER;
Hail the rainmaker, in his guise of a faceless man.
He treads heavily under his burdens clear, with eternal darkness eating at his back.
He bends and bows himself to their will, for he knows of nothing else.
They say at birth he was forged for this, his very essence wrapped in death.
To know him is doom in eyes of all, for who dares seek his touch when none is asked nor given?
Like a stone he endures the turmoil. Unchanged, unwavering, triumphant…
A veneer… A shadow of shadows past…
"Fear me," Cry the Wanderers. "For I am Pain."
"Bleed for me," Wails the caged darkness; "I demand sustenance."
"Die for me," Breathes his heart. "For I've nothing left to give."
The clouds wreathe his silvery head the sea and flame his eyes.
He fights for those who know him not and asks for more when done.
He digs his teeth into his flesh, to alleviate the pain,
But carries on in silence as if nothing is amiss.
Who would dare contradict him?
Who would call his bluff?
He weaves his deadly web of lies, an intricate mask of words.
He hides behind his hollow smirks, his cheerful anxieties.
In understanding all he's lost himself, and holds ill will to this.
His blade undoes the wicked, his gaze seeks out the truth.
His hollow eye shines with blazing light, like a demon in the mist;
"Hear me," Cry his memories, "You must not forget."
"See for me," Wails his long lost friend, "And I shall never end."
"Die for me," Breathes his heart of hearts, "For I've no will left to live."
Like a beacon in a dreary cove he stands alone unmoved.
A harbinger, hidden, holy, out of touch, like an missionary's light…
Lost he grinds onward like a wheel of time, an unstoppable force,
And yet, inside, he lags behind, wounded, as if darkened with a curse…
"Come," He says, "Fight me, for I've nothing left to loose."
Many try, to end his reign. To throw him, fell him down.
And they will try a hundred years, and still be unstated in their thirst.
When battles fought and blood for naught is spilled on the wretched field.
He'll rise up within victorious, a hundred times again.
Stained red with blood and pain, and a dying heart, a hollow empty shell,
He ascends to his lofty venue and with a sigh weeps for the soul he lost,
The one believed, he's never had…
Hail the rainmaker, in his guise of a faceless man.
LM
