My shadows of hope

A spark in the darkness, a fell wind fueled a flame. An evil was given shape, when the world was new. Roused to action by Bauglir's words. The war and the master, both lost to light. Then refuge it sought in the misty mountains. Under Khazad Dum's halls for a while, it dwelt. And there, in the darkness and the dark of mortal heart. It waited in the shadows for a new master's call. For light shall pass on, and die in the west. Where the silver ships of Cirdan are wont to go. And then shall come a time for reckoning. When all shall fall unto shadow. Beware of the dark places where no light dares to be. For there are some things of shadow. That mortal eyes are not meant to see. Beware the spider of Ephel Duath, beware the Uruks and the wargs. Beware the burning eye of Mordor, but above all, beware the Balrog.

Rise and you will fall Fly and you will burn Run and you will tire This world watches with jealous eyes, those, who would stare the sun down and chase the stars across the sky. It would pluck their wings and burn their hopes and dreams. And yet, from the ashes, from the shadows of those fallen before, they will rise until the heavens themselves are conquered. Why, we ask? "Because I could, but was told I couldn't.", they reply. And they, that would grasp for the sun in the sky, they cannot abide boundaries, or lies.

Look in the mirror and I recoil from what I see. Pitted and scarred, ash streaked from the death of a hundred dreams. I run, stumble away, from the instrument of my torture. An honest reflection. I try to hide from my own eyes in a mask. But, to my horror, I see, proof that is inescapable, that this ugliness is my destiny, the mask I wear is just as broken as me.

Conscience, that constant voice, cease for a moment thine eternal noise. I beg thee reconsider this path of constant vigilance o'er acts of mine. This is me! I do declare. I proclaim from tallest tower to deepest mire. Not proud, just broken, I am but an honest monster, wearing a man's skin akin to a lamb coated wolf. I do not hide my claws I do not wear the veneer of respectable sophistry. And yet you prattle to me about rights, wrongs, about valour sung in song, and yet, now, I ask thee be still. Listen. In these crypts of righteousness, where slumber the heroes of the past, what do you hear, else from the constant crunch of their bones beneath my teeth. What defence does lend to them, their valour? None, for in the dark, where hunger lingers, listen. Only silence and I reign supreme.

Find my leg, somewhere out there, find my bullets and my gun. Those that died, whose voice is quiet, they are the lucky ones. I've got to live, one piece at a time, my whole life has again begun. But those who now sleep, in the ground deep, they are the lucky ones.

How can a laugh feel so empty and dry? How could this smile feel so dead inside? How could joy feel this brittle in my hands? How did darkness come to these once sunlit lands. Like glass, to fall and shatter, from pale lips, red spattered. A ghost, upon cheeks of rogue, that never reaches the eyes, this terrible, distraught smile. How did the darkness fall, like drops of burning ink, to color over and cover up, that once beautiful smile.

No pretence did this wolf need except for being born to sheep And to calm their incessant fears He wore the wool and became meek. But the heart of a hunter still did beat and so he was found, standing over a body in which no longer a heart beat. Whom did they kill? He who did what he did Or those who said he was not who, thought was he. Their entreaties, their bleats fell upon deaf ears. And so they, the sheep, killed a wolf just for being who he is.

There's no one as free as a son in the grave with four walls around him and no eyes left to stare. Deep beneath the ground or deep beneath the waves our proud son lies in his six foot grave. For the greed of the rich or the honor of the brave. He fell to his resting place nonetheless, in horrid fray. His medals weigh him down from wiping his mother's tear. The earth he fought for, holds him in loving embrace. There's no duty here, no call to rise and die again. So sleep, my sonny boy, forever, in your grave.

What do want from me Why don't you run from me Why would a sheep, in wolf's shadow, stand? What conditions did life demand? What vicissitudes that made you stand in the shadows thus, with only big, bad, old me, for company. Speak, plead, bleat! But know this, that I will neither hear nor heed your desperate words, for mercy is an alien thing to one such as me, you see. And I'm hungry, thin as can be, as you can see.

All I ask of you is a little sin. A little blood, a little violence, and hell, Hell will make you a king. On a throne of bones, a crown so heavy it's crushing you beneath, but hell, wouldn't you rather be a king! There are many Kings here, none older or more punished than me. But hell, I'd still rather be a King. Heaven's got a lot of promise, a lot of sunshine and shining wings. But I know a lie when I hear one. Those empty halls and tolling bells those golden fields and rapturous delight. Hell, even in Hell, I'd always say I'll give you that blood, I'll commit the sin just don't send me to be a slave in Heaven Because I would rather rule in Hell on my throne of bones, in eternal suffering.

Scratching across paper coarse the pen tries to write, but woe, thirst, fate had already written, across his parched and feverish brow. Lies whispered in days of old the stories to him that were told paradise for those who would toe the laws of old. Such, to him, lies were told.

A hundred thousand crows to be my feathers and help me fly. A hundred thousand tounges to slither and slip over my lies. A hundred thousand beaks to prod at me and make me bleed. A hundred thousand beaks to eat my eyes and help me see.

I see that dark train pulling out of the station. I know that dark train is coming for me. I feel the souls hungering inside, they await me, to feed on me. No windows, on that dark train no sunlight and no shade. Feeding on hope and my soul, that dark train, is coming for me. Inexorable, it's wheel keep turning Inescapable, it's wrath is burning I try to run, from that dark train, but it's got it's hooks, deep into me.

They sobbed and screamed, the many, the afraid. Rending the air with their piteous disquiet. But the world roared louder still, a shout to blot out all else. And man went, with a whimper, into that good night. And all those hands that cut were lowered. And all those mouths that ate were closed. Judgement was wrought upon them and nothing could keep it out. Neither their cities, nor their walls, Neither their prayers, nor their doors.

The swords bent once before, faced with dragon's ire. Now they bend once again, to a dragon's fire. The halls are empty of the living the streets are filled with the dead. It started with Harrenhall, and it now ends with a Queen's death.

In the last of days, in falling halls and failing hearts, they cried. "To the King, to the King" ere they fought and died. "To the King, give what you must for he must live, he must survive." "For the King's honor", they cried. But late was the hour of their arrival, and the King lay dead upon the field. "To death, then.", cried brave Eomer. "To death", cried his brave Éored. With black sails upon them and the burning city to their back, they rode. Unto wrath, unto ruin. And into world's ending, they rode.

You may not believe in the Gods living above, but the end of time is as real as you are. You may not trust in the one up above, but the bad place below is as real as you are. The winds go by invisible but the fire will burn nonetheless. You may not taste water but the earth will swallow you nonetheless. The light may be fast indeed but death is faster still. Alive now, an instant later and you are gone. As real as a dream, a memory.

"A wolf is never alone", they cried, in the halls of the new Hand. "A wolf has claws, and teeth", they cried, when the Lion sank it's fangs. "A wolf is dead, but the wolf lives still", on the way to Harrenhall, they screamed. "A man with a wolf's head, is a wolf nonetheless", they sobbed, at the Twins. The old wolf died, the young wolf followed, the white wolf saw he was alone in his sorrow. And dropped he did, his coat of black, and though death came for him, he turned it back. "I have an oath to keep", the white wolf thundered "and even death will not stay my hand." "Aye, for you are our rightful leader, my young king", a little giant of a girl said, "And here we stand." The white wolf fought, and lost so much, so many of the pack to the cold's attack. That the wolf's heart grew weary indeed with the blood that stained his hands black. So, when the deeds were do...

You don't have to tell me about, the sadness spreading in your heart, or the darkness that seems grow, I know. Not a single word that needs to be said about all the pain inside that needs an escape, or the thorns that seem to only grow, I know.

All he got, for the devil and from God, were words that he never sought. Never asked, for the lies he lives, his little alibis that he breathes still. That a heart still beats, however faintly, in that cadaverous cavern, in the dark. And all he hears, that poor man, are the lies that pass from the heart of the devil and the lips of God.

Red brick prison watches my knees on the ground. Silent witness as the world beats me down. Shackled and bound, I'm circling the drain. Red brick prison watches as I lose my name. I'm just a number now, a statistic in a book. The ink stains me deeper than the darkest of hooks. I stand suspended, so does my life. Behind bars, behind closed doors behind my closed, wet eyes. Darkness take me, I can't bear to be me anymore. But no one listens, not really, not anymore. Just these bricks, red bricks red as the stains on my hands, to stand by me, witness! How a man came to you, what a shadow you made of me.

The comedy is ended the clown rubs his face raw white, his hands are stained, red, he wears upon his soul. Smash the spotlights, douse the whole place in comforting darkness, don't you feel his need to hide? The comedy is ended, a clown is needed no more, so depart now, stage left, let the curtains rise on someone else's show.

Throw your hate at me, your invective, your anger and I shall wear it as a crown. For this I deserve, this I have earned. Throw your malice, your violence, your madness and your retorts. And they shall be as my armour, for they are proof of what I have done. But give me not your love, your peace, your understanding. For I am destruction, forever breaking, forever melting in the heat of the forge. I am not he who would hold a flower and marvel at it's shape, it's smell and colour. I am he who snaps the branch, he who holds the sword, covered in ichor. I am a simple instrument, made for a purpose and that purpose is not one that belongs. Not anymore. Not in this world. So throw me back into the fray, or let me rust in scabbard to end of day. But draw me not and give me love. Draw me to bring wrath. Draw me to take blood.