Light from dark

His visage will appear to be, embraced by mediocrity.
The tattered dreams he left behind, no longer cross his craven mind.
The thoughts begun outside his spirit, never were within or near it.
His mind rebels and turns again – to what it really takes to win…

Shuffling, shaking, on his way, he joins the muse so dark and fey,
appealing to it’s inner core, it feeds him while he begs for more.
Their sullied spirits rise again, as darkness bleeds out from his pen…
He falls upon it, in his ire, the dark muse laughs… and fuels the fire.

Enslaved he sits and blindly waits, his muse affected by the fates,
that wander on the hallowed soil, encumbered by their fruitless toil.
Again he ponders – not so greatly – all ideas considered saintly,
while his mind begins to wander… thoughtless of the beauty squandered.

His pen has sought another path – he loves not vengeance, loves not wrath.
For while this darkest muse can see, his heart grows cold and pays a fee,
for all the beauty he has lost, wasted like a coin he tossed…
cast upon immortal winds, where love does end, and hate begins.

The King awaits a world set free, by peace – and blessed anarchy.
A world where souls no longer pause, for spirit knows not mortal laws.
His free will is that drunken state, where love and honor can abate,
the thoughts that others act upon, for here His truth lives ever on.