Lit once for the long-dead, a great flame casts

Unctuous shadows that dance for the mad.

They draw their weary sycophants in with

Illusions of a world untouched by darkness.

However, for all they claim to offer,

Torment's truly these phantasms' award.

Their thralls seek dominion over Nature

For the tragic acridness of its will.

Born of disorder, maligned and foul,

Ghastly in Beauty's Eye, vengeance boils

Within them; drives their denial of the

Divine; spawns rage quenched just by tyranny.

As a bleak horde, sustained by theft and pride,

They project their corrupt mirages onto

The world they forsook for their revulsion;

Pervert glory for their deficiencies;

Dam the flowing stream of life for contempt;

Drown potential for rigid purity.

They murder the gentle Hand of Mercy,

Mistaking his judgment and teachings for

Mockery; thus, taunting the Hand of Fate.

By this, they beg for Fury's reprisal;

Demand that the Universe assert its

Will over their recalcitrant bodies.

Hence, by betraying the Good Father for

The innate limits of their existence,

Confusing the blaze for its potent fuel,

They confine themselves to a self-made tomb;

Condemn themselves to icy ignorance;

Feast on Damocles' Dagger for all time.

For madness driven by natural inequities,

These self-deceivers construct a throne of their flesh

On which their Shadow Prince may eternally rest.

There sits their object of resentment and conceit;

An idol for their execrable polity.