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First Poem - Nailman - 03-19-2024
It's been decades since I walked out of Sheol,
With little more to my name than my mother's love
And a singular goal in mind:
To my father, we must do more than bind.
I always had a love for the art,
though that I could not manifest.
Were I to allow it to thrive from the start,
the world would be in unrest.
My own kin's blood lies in my hand
An empire crushed between my fingers
And while some of it still lingers
I rest knowing only I can not relent.
My mother once said:
You're the only good thing I've ever done.
And while I try not to let it get to my head,
I know only that I am her favored son.
And in the depths of my meditation
Father was, perhaps, correct in his imagination
If we wish for unification
So that the world may find liberation
Then we must give them an enemy.
... There is no rhyme. This is pointless.
My heart is pure,
my soul is forfeit,
cast as they see fit,
but I shall be their cure.
Inactivity dies when I sound the drums
new threats pointed towards, questions cast
as they fear they might succumb
the evil in Aegis is then harassed.
In the light of the god of duality
the entire continent shall be put on trial
though my ways are marred by brutality
the iron fist shall find its way to those in denial.
To the west our armies move
until the glutton's tree is dead.
I have nothing left to prove
for all I wish is a tranquil rest in my bed.
Call me as your enemy, if you so wish.
But do not disappoint me.
With little more to my name than my mother's love
And a singular goal in mind:
To my father, we must do more than bind.
I always had a love for the art,
though that I could not manifest.
Were I to allow it to thrive from the start,
the world would be in unrest.
My own kin's blood lies in my hand
An empire crushed between my fingers
And while some of it still lingers
I rest knowing only I can not relent.
My mother once said:
You're the only good thing I've ever done.
And while I try not to let it get to my head,
I know only that I am her favored son.
And in the depths of my meditation
Father was, perhaps, correct in his imagination
If we wish for unification
So that the world may find liberation
Then we must give them an enemy.
... There is no rhyme. This is pointless.
My heart is pure,
my soul is forfeit,
cast as they see fit,
but I shall be their cure.
Inactivity dies when I sound the drums
new threats pointed towards, questions cast
as they fear they might succumb
the evil in Aegis is then harassed.
In the light of the god of duality
the entire continent shall be put on trial
though my ways are marred by brutality
the iron fist shall find its way to those in denial.
To the west our armies move
until the glutton's tree is dead.
I have nothing left to prove
for all I wish is a tranquil rest in my bed.
Call me as your enemy, if you so wish.
But do not disappoint me.