• There he stood before the alter,
    sacrificions placed,
    everything ready,
    his heart in a race.

    Raising his hand,
    he licked his wrist,
    making the skin wet,
    no spot missed.

    His skin pale white,
    his eyes jet black,
    they were alike in colour,
    to the wings on his back.

    Outward he stretched them,
    strong and proud,
    his only distinction,
    from the crowd.

    The floor trembled,
    an almighty voice,
    the God of Heaven,
    doubted his choice.

    "Son, why must you,
    leave me behind,
    you can live with,
    those of your kind!"

    In his hand a dagger rose,
    licking his wrist,
    blood flowing,
    where no spot was missed.

    "Fallen Angel; my son,
    you can come back!
    you don't have to live,
    in that pitiful fullness of lack!"

    A high pitch voice rose,
    from a mouth of fangs,
    screaming to the Heavens,
    where drums; how they banged!

    "God the Father,
    abide by me,
    for in this satiric vow,
    I have found true glee!"

    The crimson blood flowed,
    into the bowl on the alter,
    yet and the hand and arm,
    did not falter.

    Torches came to life,
    magic in the air,
    causing the most ugly,
    to seek the most fair.

    Ritual, ritual,
    the merest of thoughts,
    not to this one,
    he had lots.

    Deep within the blood,
    bone bowl and all,
    a sly voice rang,
    in the weakest of calls:

    "Come Forgotten One,
    come,
    riches and pleasures await,
    come and see; we will sip rum."

    In the bone bowl of blood,
    an ethereal eye opened it's lushed lids,
    a crimson pupil so rage filled,
    most would do whatever it bids.

    The shriek came again,
    the ritual in motion,
    but this time,
    a chant was spoken.

    "Blood, bone and rage,
    fires of Forsaking Hell,
    pits of the Desolate Void,
    ring your bells!


    Giveth thee the finest gifts,
    heal me with Satan's rage,
    set me free from,
    this kindly kind cage!"

    The shriek fell short,
    to be replaced with a howl,
    throwing back the head,
    of the man in the cowl.

    The chant came again,
    a voice loud and level,
    speaking the words,
    to not only the Devil.

    "Satiric creatures arise!
    Join me; it is time,
    come and participate,
    in this deathly rhyme.

    Fulfill my pleas,
    tell the devil to come-forth on me,
    and I will shareth-thee,
    this unGodly glee!"

    The floor shook once more,
    no voice of God,
    He was watching from Fragile Heaven,
    not in triumph; yet He is God!

    "Angels of yonder,
    angels that soar,
    let me hear you,
    roar, roar, roar!

    Go thy heroic seraphs,
    find the Fallen One,
    cleanse him of Forsaking Hell,
    and stop his rhyme; before it is done!"

    Millions of angels,
    rained from Heaven,
    the same course planned;
    the same orders given.

    The Fallen One continued,
    his deathly rhyme,
    for he knew,
    that at his side, there was time!

    "Satan,
    Lord of Death,
    cometh-thee,
    let me hear your vile breath!"

    Around him rose,
    creatures of Hell,
    bearing a throne,
    in the air: the chimes of bells!

    Burst of flame,
    Satan sitting upon his spinly throne,
    God gave out,
    a most desperate moan.

    "Fallen One,
    life is no game,
    you are the only one,
    that you will maim.

    Let me tell you,
    about my game,
    and if you lose,
    I will love you just the same.

    The Devil; he is different,
    if you lose his game,
    his only thoughts,
    will be to maim.

    He will tear you,
    limb from limb,
    until you hang,
    from the void; the rim!"

    The Fallen One sighed,
    a gruesome sound,
    then,
    he turned around.

    His eyes met,
    those of the devil,
    wanting them both to be,
    on the same God-forsaken level.

    "Satan; brother,
    you hath heareth my cry,
    for in my tone,
    you hear no lie.

    I will be yours,
    but on a simple condition,
    please don't make a waste of,
    my most deadly rendition.

    I must be level,
    with Satan himself,
    I must be,
    on the same plane as the Devil."

    Satan's eyes narrowed,
    more than a "condition" he knew,
    this could be given,
    to only a select few.

    "I wish to be,
    your right hand man,
    against the Holy,
    one with the damned.

    This is all I wish,
    no greater; no less,
    tell me your answer,
    so that I may not guess."

    Satan lifted,
    his unsightly hand,
    making the Fallen One,
    the strongest in the land.

    "Be made my creature,
    strength of Forsaking Hell; pride of the Desolate Void,
    stronger than any,
    of my many, many droids."

    Fallen One his name,
    and he chose to play,
    just one little game,
    in the white moon's rays.

    Now he is,
    Satan's right hand man,
    against the Holy,
    one with the damned.