Even the highest lords are no match!
Those sickly seaman! They lack!
Might of a real man.
Sickly souls without form
Formless? Meaningless..
They soak in mournful yearning
A life lost
They lost "gravely" that hour.
They lost their lives (The sight!)
And the mourning! It begins...
But when will it end?!
Oh those wretched screams I hear!
The northern wailing far but near!
Peace invokes the war's pleasantries.
The most unpleasant,
The most unclean,
The most malignant!
Of all nature’s machines.
And of the deceased, if I may
Curse you all this dark, dark day.
(No lord can save you now! That is your fate; that is what binds us to this world. As your flesh corrodes and your brows rot to the ground, continue looking for the peace never found.)
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Submission Name: Acheronian
