A red eyed demon full of hate
builds his world up from the dust
There is no time in his Enmity
‘A feeling or condition of hostility’

The name, a curse, of three syllables
sits eagerly awaiting it’s night time meals
bane of the pure, and blood of the weak
it lies, and whispers, while you sleep

The velvety claws of shadow, nigh
sing a thorn-filled lullaby
of angel’s scorn, and heated breath
and those whose arms welcomed death

Poor is the soul who knows naught of pain
and rich the child with rose petal stains
tied from wrist to wrist
and passed from hand to hand
these are the words of the knowledge of man.