He is the creation of the dark lord,
every hair, every muscle, every sinewy cord.
Inside him exists a horde of damned souls,
the source of his power, more is his goal.
From his body their screams may be heard,
his flesh undulates with those who've lost the word.
His eyes are as black as a thousand dead hearts,
he tears souls to shreds, consumes their parts.
His skin his taught, the shade of dried blood,
covered in flesh and bone chewed into cud.
His arms are as thick as pillars of Rome,
his voice stops hearts with its' wicked tone.
His canines are the length of Hannibals' sword,
his presence, absolute, will not be ignored.
His nose senses what is less then good,
he is the reckoning, all is understood.
His ears pick up the darkest of thoughts,
in the last hour they pray, all for naught.
Akromesis, the dark leader of legions,
loyal to his master for infinite seasons.