O, Conqueror, tread softly;
your passion compromises the Sleeping.
You disturb those who lay down and die;
your life has no grace for these.
O, Conqueror, do not patronize,
your banner flies to never fall,
above all who die that life you loath to live;
your heart is one that stands to bleed.
O, Conqueror, silence your awesome cry;
hear! The Dead whisper to enslave;
your feral rage they attempt to tame with a waltz;
your soul to be entombed, your fire, bade rest.
O, Conqueror, won't you sleep?
Your invasion wakes those who slept;
your fierce love and hate and imperfection
wound those who saw the cost too great.
O Conqueror, blunt your sword;
you battle yourself too oft of late.
Give in, give up, cool your rage;
The perfect dead will have you, either way. |
Submission Name: The Worm's Tongue
