(A quickly written post tonight. Please enjoy.)
The twisted ones can barely walk,
but shanter on and out.
The twisted ones can barely talk,
but corkle with a shout.
And all will fear the twisted ones
when gathered on the earth;
all men will fear the twisted ones
when tombs and graves give birth.
But who will kill the twisted ones and make
the world anew? What sword might cleave? What blade
might rend, the rising demon hoard? Twisted
that they might never die; how can they then
be slain? Misshapen flesh, a tyrant’s art,
comes flooding over all the world. Cannot
this end be stayed? Cannot the damned be dammed?
The twisted ones will rise,
but hope, it never dies.
The hero will be born
to comfort those who mourn.
The night is drawing fast,
and all will come to past.