A darkness dawned upon rotten lands,
withered gray as the common man’s hands,
whom,
forsaken by fire,
the Gods,
their elements,
Rises in perverse adherence to nature’s laws
and Grim corruption.

Shall not the dark of the evil rise
forsake what is left,
of this prehuman concoction?
This bubbling froth of witch’s-brew poison–
with a little hatred and fear
tossed right in–
simmered in shame,
and a death prone to tears.

O! yea though we know not what is left,
we do know what be our quest;
might the land be purged of its arcane hell,
if only for the fading moment,
of man’s dying flame.

For the Taken have come,
and the world has changed.

And though now we walk through many valleys,
enshadowed by the Grim spectre,
we know only what is left,
we fear no more death,
for life is too precious to waste,
in naught but pursuit of love,
happiness bereft.

Cleansed now are those souls,
who’d once been so rotten,
for though it took death,
their sins are forgotten.