'Twas but a dream for all who fought
The raging wars of heavenly thoughts
As the moon's last gleaming so darkly covered
With hints of rue in shadows hovered,

Conveying the darkness once again,
Above each soul that breathed had been,
Whilst the twisting, churning fires,
Spread over the earth in scathing ire,

Until the Stranger rose from hatred fleeting,
To face his enemy in dire meeting,
Of consequences yet unknown to both
But rising deep in hearts as growth

Took forth a name beneath the mask
As they both began the destined task,
To fight against the growing hue,
Covering life and death each hand threw,

With rod and scepter the good one held,
Opposite the fiery, blissful death he spelled,
For both had come to face their mark,
As moonlight faded night so stark,

And the Stranger grinned in repeated mirth,
To bring back the death that he unearthed,
Before each one he stole in grand desire,
And taking their souls from the Higher,

Back to a pit of jealousy and anger,
Where fire and brimstone are but a danger,
With no escape for the tormented one,
And only a thought their souls were done--

For all an eternity's grasp it brought,
Whence the murky dealings their faith had fought,
Taken back to the place of one's last yearning,
To be in power without it earning,

So says the myth that all who want,
Give in to darkness by numbers six in Taunt,
Does the one who supplies our dreams with life,
May have every soul six inches cut by knife,

And to return nevermore before,
To the one they feigned to follow more,
Since his gifts were hard to grasp,
Whilst the Stranger their souls clasped--

Back to the stage of battle begun,
Where both had met as the fearsome Sons,
Of inequity and beauty,
Of anger and duty,

Beheld as the good and evil they were perceived,
Damned and forsaken was the Stranger conceived,
Against the light and holy ways of God,
With staff at hand and the outward rod,

As one by one they charged each other,
To turn man against his only brother,
Until the clouds of lightning shone through,
And the Stranger his sword had drew,

Piercing the flesh of his only rival,
Between each move in the game of survival,
For the earthen crest beneath them,
That the Stranger prized as the Stem

Of all the power he had easily assumed,
With the people beneath him fiercely consumed,
In laughter of the despise of good,
He knew not to surrender he should,

For that would be an end to the glory,
Of darkness in nights with bodies gory,
And the sanctity of life returned,
No end to the place in life he earned,

But to defeat death a final time,
With but a whimper and sifting chime,
To the clouds above him,
And fatherly love that hellishly swims,

In every part of the Stranger's heart,
As death had raised him in a move to start
The end of the of that One they loved,
Who brought forth the calming Dove,

Of a peace that when unveiled,
Had knew its mission failed,
As the darkness had pierced the leader hard,
With a piece of its own, twisted shard

When down goes the head of praying life,
Using the same old jagged knife
With six inches cut on either side
Til evil had won,

And good had died--

For the Stranger returned once more to Live,
Raising himself from the death he'd give,
All that was and is his to not even one,
For each and every soul he'd finally won.