By Harle, the Dark Moon Dragon ^_^
A great, cold man,
Burning without, burning within,
Melts not that cold glacial gaze,
Hardened with innocent sin.
"Mother! Mother! Mother!"
He wails into the crimson flame
Forsaking the material world
And the childish chessboard fame.
Did Lachises herself thread the fabric,
Of your princeley robes and grace?
Now their frayed edges feel the empty air,
Around the northern crater's wastes.
Incorporeal now is the mind,
Which sat in this distracted orb,
Scattered to the river of light thereout,
For the cosmos' ebony maw to absorb.
Great fixed God of War,
Angel of death, fair acolyte,
Of that which sleeps to feed,
On the inner world's baned starlight.
Call to the child who hid his face,
When paled by thy wan majesty's visage,
Now your mothers hand beckons fate,
And you cry out in your own helpless rage.
String the lights of the stars,
Mother, mother, hear the calls?
Of the lives of the wars?
Hear your son's shocked usurped wails.