• Black wrought iron chains tighten,
    The Black Bird Calls the chant of the lost,
    Verily they go upon the persistent doom,
    Carried over the winds of a long scorched land,
    The dust of ages forms the light of worlds,
    Heed the call of the Shade,
    His cries are of Mourning,
    Night and day in their joining cut the fabric of musk,
    Too which the twilight calls it dusk,
    Maybe the moors will sweeten their sinking touch,
    Like the nymphs of the elder tree,
    Desire the maidens leave,
    Among other sins the bleeding of gods,
    For the heir to the throne of the moon,
    She mars the skin of gods,
    Take your kin and lay them into the land of dusk,
    The dying of the light is her weary call,
    That haunts the blood stained shores of the hearts of men,
    Breathing will not cease the stain,
    Nor can one stop the insecticide meant infection,
    Of the sword which bears a child,
    The taste of the glow is sweet indeed,
    But take care not to feast,
    For the ache of seasons carries a vicious sting,
    Do not forget she mars the skin of gods
    The wispy glass of flesh, could bare no tarnish,
    Should the jewels within meet the maker of anguish,
    The cradle to which she bears your name,
    Is a nest of horrid things,
    While we rest she feeds us the poison of night,
    No single feeder is secure,
    Take the night,
    For surely the kindness of the son,
    Will save you.

    - Excerpt from The Way of Lions
    - by Creator of infinity aka the twilight king