The Chronic 2But on the border of the fertile land,
far from his native coast,
the darkness holding, waiting, stands,
and prepares to gather its host,
to take the land of our forebears,
while their lord but sits and stares.
He sits on his throne, with eyes of jet,
a scar across his face,
by the strength of his mind aside he's swept,
those who wish to take his place,
through this to himself he grasps
a power to make one gasp.
His strength of mind comes not to play,
with lightning lit by tricks,
like other's sorcerers of the day,
nor does he carry a stick,
his strength of mind is, well, the same,
more intelligence than a game.
By wise council, or so it seems,
he gathers to him his force,
at court of many kings who deem;
'tis time again for war,
they grant him might beyond their own,
and thus his strenght has grown.
Three different kings he serves,
each more powerful than the last,
three different hosts he herds,
to our kingdom, standing fast,
edged between a sea of foes,
with each new dawn, it grows.
The Chronic 1The doom of death approaches,
fast, without delay,
so let may tell my story,
so long I still can say,
and tell all who wish to hear,
from whence came the fear.
'Twas long ago, in wintertime,
and well stocked, the stores,
and fires brightly burning shine,
as a little dory hits the shore,
a slumped grey shape sits stiff,
deep in the shadow of the cliffs.
A thin wail sounds, deep in the night,
a figure silently slips through the door
of a hut on the cliffs, a slight
shadow climbs to the sandy shore
of the beach, and the girl leans to the boat,
taking the infant 'neath her cloak.
She takes him with her, safe inside,
there to keep him as her own,
she leaves the dead one to the tide,
where the old man is to nothingness thrown,
by the wind, from the stormy skies,
where the bright lightning flies.
The boy has grown, is almost a man,
he is well known and liked,
faster than all contenders he was,
in a race throughout the night,
he wrestled strongest in the match,
and the fastest deer did he catc
CrowsThe crow's cry is dark, loud,
and harsh and, when in a crowd,
when above the field of battle,
where waiting, they straddle
the hot winds, and when 'tis finished,
they settle like a blanket to diminish
the work of those who pile the corpses,
and light the piles with burning torches,
'tis deafening, a dreadful din,
and wherever Death does win
(for he is the only winner, you see),
'tis wise for men to flee.
Peace of MindSo what do I write,
this question in my mind?
One can make of it,
what one will,
But my mind sits,
no ideas to show,
my motivation is low,
I suffer 'neath stress,
A pain in my head,
will I go to bed?
No, there's no need,
I will get things right,
a few points to heed,
to defeat the blight,
and now, the pain is gone,
but the emptiness still is strong,
and nothing can I do,
but take calm,
and in my mind strew,
ah, 'tis a balm.
Guilt"Shut up!" But why?
No need to cry,
No need to shout,
Or rage and scream,
But then, it seems
There's nothing else for it,
What shaal I do?
I shall ignore it,
And also shaking,
Unearthing the roots,
'Neath layersof soot
Though you think it rash;
Of that which you believe,
though you wish to decieve
And lie, in that you are sly,
And mischievous, but your end is nigh,
THe truth is approaching,
Upon you encroaching,
Unnerving but right,
Uncov'ring the blight
In those you lead,
What they do on the street,
Unknown to you, you say,
Day after day,
But face the truth,
Your pride and wealth
will do you no good,
Your face is grey,
Your actions fey,
Now see your life,
Naught left but strife,
So give yourself top the knife!