The Sophist

2014-04-29 12:00 am

I'd strike out the sun for harming sinews,
This service I'll pay myself as a fine,
Enlarger of kingdom if ever I die,
'queathing my soul for the roar of a lion.

I giveth thee lukewarm blood of a newborn,
God my appetite; I hunger for power.
Shrew Lord of perpetual night liveth nigh,
Covered from danger in half-lighted fog.

Co-sign and write before bloodlines congeal.
Our magic will bring desolation to smog.
Fill the lines afore 'why?' and 'oh sigh'
Flog grace and damnation 'till three parts combine.