Enemy of Evil, kissed by indirection, head piked by oppression, a mere
maggot for collection.
Mercy is inaudible, reputation bleared, the filthy wretches ties to the
Light forever smeared.

Hindered by realizations, and curling up to cry, inward echoes haunting
truths they outwardly deny.
Spiritual disfigurement, and weaknesses perceived, Shaitanic blades
behead vermin without conscience and are sheathed.

Forgetfulness of Sartan, traps mortals in Mhaldors mesh, no sympathy
shall be shown for a mass of worthless flesh.

Incubi's Archival legends, of antisocial brooding, blood-thirsty Naga's
capture impossibly alluding.
Hypnotic gesturing, in Districts filled with stench, the Tyrranus
reclining on the Prelates bones-made bench.

Immense depth residing, beneath its glaring gaze, a whisper to the
Baalzadeen and foes are sparked ablaze.
Body turned to ashes, in Succubi's Letters they are sent, to the
families of the Church as a Logomas present.

Thunderous waves roaring, Oppression and Suffering united, Twin Lords
blessings decided, the meek shall all be smited.

Once mighty Bards of Cyrene, heard in distant lands, tremble to your
knees as Mhaldor's Daemonic poet commands.
Your mournful songs all muted, your harmonics sounding vile, your eyes
locked without shutter on Evil's rhythmic style.

Laughter's warm embrace, spiraling into horrors vibration, breaking down
your spirits without any hesitation.
Aching for relief, and crawling towards the gates, disturbed deeply by
your grief, as slaves you meet your fates.

Rebirth is too kind for you, the Logos is too sweet, for even after you
have risen, you shall serve at Mhaldorian feet.

Bloodstone path of Vengeance, Malevolent stones laid anew, so many speak
of strength but it's displayed by but a few.
Roaming air of wickedness, the temperature hath suddenly risen, defy the
Twin Lords and be vivisected with precision.

Grasp onto your beliefs, and hope you are not found, for when Evil comes
a knocking, youll be burrowed in the ground.
For all your ideals that you cling to, self-righteousness and pious
ways, shall be devoured by this Cannibal poet and discarded before your
final days.

Dark and silent you shall hide, sounds forever unspoken, called forth by
the absolute holy Sartanic token,
Focused inward, soulless mirror, feel the Seven Truths draw nearer.

Hearts a plenty, shadows dancing, Suffering fools soulfully romancing,
Swirling smoke, and fleshless bones, and futuristic undertones.

Past triumphant, laurels rest, creeping towards their final breath...the
Silent Death.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Glacian, in the year 523 AF.