Memoirs of a Necromancer

Swathed in darkness it does dwell,

On through time's undying hell.

The master tightens his iron grip,

And vibrant life begins to slip.

Broken spirits cry in pain;

All for naught, they cry in vain.

Servants now to him are bound,

In wretched agony and hollow sound.

Taste the fear and sense of dread,

For he who walks where death does tread.

Terror binds the eternal soul

To puppet strings in another's control.

Forever tantalized with the heart's desire,

Burned to nothing in everlasting fire.

A cacophonous lament on hell-bound wings,

Listen with rapture as the angels sing:

"From the mountain high, to the valley low,

Beware the seeds that darkness sows!

Let it be known these words are said

For he who walks where death does tread."

From a cradled babe, so full of zest,

To the numbing cold of oblivion's rest.

And innocent soul, once full of wonder;

That same soul, now raped and plundered.

In the darkened recess of one's mind

Is where thou will most likely find

The shattered remains of a life gone by.

Listen with sorrow as the spirits cry:

"Know that life hangs by a thread,

For he who walks where death does tread."