In the circle, within a ring of fire,
Fleeting shadows dance and sway
Perdition in a limited time,
Repentance is a myth conspicupous
By its absence.
A circle of fury, a dance of wrath,
A sphere of nothingness,
And awesome wails
Shrieks, piteous cries of pleading
for their insignificant lives.
A ghastly smile on the face,
on a head that's flying down,
lopped off by a passing breeze.
A few arms strewn about,
still holding a shield, or a blade.
Blood in the air, creating a crimson
sphere.
Flying in the face of wrath,
a dozen foolish souls,
mowed down by the fury
that render the air viscous.
Severed limbs - still alive, like spiders.
At the center of all, a smile,
on the angelic face of a demon,
Eyes closed in rapture,
one hand on the ground, wet with crimson,
and in the other, pale blue steel
gleaming like lighting.
Slicing away the lives of fools,
delivering unto them the mercy of death.
Spinning like the sun itself,
Hypnotic patterns of the blade hold sway.
Sparks of lives - like the shards
of spent swords, wither away.
His golden robes are untouched by filth,
and his eyebrows are untainted by pain.
Cutting the threads of fate,
of those in the macabre circle,
His smile terrors them.
A never ending dream of hell erupts,
from each point on the ground
touched by the steel.
Tempered in the flames of hate,
the blade calls all a foe,
and delivers a fiery blow
to the minions in service of none.
A continual fountain of blood,
flowing from the neck,
above which there soon was a head,
Bathes the moonlit circle in crimson.
Legs without their owners,
Arms without the hands,
A smile on his face,
and death in his arms,
welcoming the flailing gods
who dared cross his path.
No fault is laid, no allegations made.
Only death is dealt, in a searing surge
of pain.
The allure of dismay,
in this perpetual macabre dance of death.
