Rising from black waters, a demon from the deep,
Blade in hand, upon the neck of Immortality.
That which is not, is to be.
Whose throat has been cut is Sanity's.
The anchor drawn, to darkened dawn the witch's wind doth carries me.
A prisoner of gust and tide, awaiting damning sleep.
The black witch wields his sortilege, thus halting my retreat.
His rusted stave the aperture through which the Evil cast.
Uproots itself from demon's grip, and the seas mutate to glass.
Upon this glass I skate nowhere, Oblivion all what lasts.
But as I run, the witch he wails, and with his torturous tune;
Alas! He quells the glacial mass to shatter, now nothing is left to lose.
Evil Magick, I your muse and your ally if so you choose.
Into my hand your instinct calls you; fly forth vicious device, I shall install you.
Now Darkness prevails. Pray you come quickly; lest this be my greatest weakness!
For the moon it departs, and your demon imparts none but blindness and Death's empty kiss.
