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Dusk, time of death…

Gazing

About

At the mountains of black stone,

The elder untouched forest

And the dark, fog-shrouded lakes

The mages shed blood

Instead of

The tears they

Do not shed

As they cast their eyes upon the

Bright-bladed forces of the light.

War-hate

Impels them forward

To pronounce their spell

To blight and

To destroy

Their enemies

Or as many of them

As

They

Can…

As they die

In a dark

Sacrifice

For their lord.

They do not tremble in blood-fear,

These magicians, since their ending

Will be rewarded by their king.

Their hate will sustain

Their minds and their force

In their afterlife.

They have been promised new life

In forms of old rotting flesh

To continue their spellcraft

For the dark one’s own glory.

They complete their incantations

And even as they are consumed

They exult in an army’s death.

All those soldiers of the cross

Are sent to death to find

No truth in theology…

And though the mages also scream,

Their cries are of satanic zeal…