Onward to Death

My Rage, beyond the starless deep
This, the only hate of pure intent,

The hypocrites jest in their aimless envy
Speaking in tongues of ancient wisdom,

Ways spoken of a God vanquished long ago
Great folly in the failure to see the root of true evil,

Pale and frigid, porcelain painted death
So hungry in their need for a savior, so weak,

Bane brings himself among the trees, Guised within winds so cold,

Of God and Blade, I sing a prayer of sharpened steel