IT IS THE END

He sits with lowered head, hearing all the sound,

The beating, pulsing noise of rustling all around,

Leathery, oily, flapping babel overcomes his sense of life,

And slowly he starts to fall away from all the strife;

They come at all hours of the deepest, darkest night,

Like mutated locusts full of loathsome blight,

Pouncing on him, tearing and eating his flesh,

The nightmares he sees can only be a living death;

Principalities rule his life and pull him down,

He strives valiantly but can’t get off the ground,

His strength wanes swiftly, the shadows march faster,

Long before he dies, he’ll call them master;

He longs and begs for an end, finally to have death,

The dark angels will not give him the release he craves yet,

The hounds of hell bite and eat the living carcass of the man,

His tortured cries and groans of agony fill their needed plan;

When he is weakened by assault, longing for an end,

The creatures of darkness will make him bow and cause his will to bend,

They’ll make him call aloud to the ebony lord of night,

Relinquishing his soul to that one’s ghastly fight;

In all the heavens and the earth no solace will be found,

Every place that he has turned has released a demon hound,

No longer seeing promise, and slipping in despair,

The gargoyles with their talons drag him to their lair.

PTR February 16, 1997