DigitHell

To purge the black plague that fouls my mind's deep hall

I set quill to vellum till the frenzy falls,

For words rise mighty, wrathful, never tame nor mild,

Venomous as a harlot's lair, no need for wrathful child.

Ho! Apostles all, together stand we firm as stone,

Their nostrils stream with crimson, I'm fell with fist and bone.

I hurl fierce combinations, behold the ruin wrought,

Thy soul I've ravished fierce in utter overwrought.

Feel the fire-tingle swell and fiercely grow,

O'er thy wits it creeps and seizes full control,

A noble savage storms in rage unending war I know,

Devouring craven heads, toppling heroes old.

Art redeems, turns agony to glaive thou wieldest true,

Art redeems, turns agony to glaive thou wieldest true.

From dawn's first breath, grenades of wrath descend like rain,

I scratch upon the page till this world's sorrows wane.

I stride the mist-veiled Scottish moors with pagan kin below,

Tread forest floors with druids, summon storms that roar and blow.

With Cernunnos I hunt through shadowed glade and brake,

I dance with lusty satyrs till the old gods wake;

Rome falls in a single day to my unyielding blade,

Armored legions broken where my fury is displayed.

Infested sore with ticks, this life a wretched sty,

Traitors lurk in every bough while napalm from the sky doth fly.

Words sear their lips like ancient roach-clips burning high,

Holy yet plague-ridden, in this doom I lie.

Art redeems, turns agony to glaive thou wieldest true,

Art redeems, turns agony to glaive thou wieldest true.

thus the old ones cry.

I loose the devils caged within my skull's dark keep,

Through paragraphs my pen hath forged in fury deep.

These demons drip upon the leaf, my spawn of rage multi-eyed,

Blind and wrathful children born where sanity hath died.

I might have swung the oaken bat to crush his traitorous head,

Or loosed the fire-rain bomb upon her slumbering bed,

Yet instead I cleft the tale and set the venom free in writ—

Now know ye well the one ye dare to cross with wit.

I'm sick, yet unchained; ye're frail, I'm forged for siege and flame.

Burn.

Art redeems, turns agony to glaive thou wieldest true,

Art redeems, turns agony to glaive thou wieldest true.