Destiny enquires what I intend,
And should hear clearly as I gladly respond
"To hell with all you chose to predestine."
She listens not, directs my attention
To the right, the north, the open, starry skies,
Where the wind smells strong of all the rotting things
That have presided long beneath its open eyes.
Watch my hope erode from that great gaze.
How I raise my fist, my crimson hand,
To unlock them from their vast and creaking chains,
To hone their teeth upon the bones of man.
I must resist the urging of my blood,
Which screams for me to bend beneath its will,
That will of mine to have a weaker heart,
And dedicate myself to powers ill.
But fate is not my master. Never was.
I tear my freedom from her iron curls,
And, blood or not, I do the better thing,
And burn this horrid place right off the world.
The pop of covert tendrils fills my heart,
Beside the screams of dreadful, hidden things.
The fires cleanse, the flame doth purify,
And my salvation rides on blazing wings.
The north still calls, from horrid polar black;
Those deepest seas where evil things reside.
They wait for me to free them from their moors,
My hand will ache until I dare oblige.
But never will I heed their bleating hails,
Those empty hearted goats who wait beyond.
I'd better serve by crafting my own fate,
A poisoned trek to send my spirit on.
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