The Onyx Monument

 
Suffer, ye demons, unto me
The fell heroes of antiquity,
Who made their famed and gloried names
In pits of black iniquity.

With scorn, I spurn your honors,
Your tributes, your gilded plaques.
I crave only the weight of a gore-streaked blade,
And the heft of blood-stained axe.

Red war is the god I was made for;
Black carnage, the beast, I revere.
With ascetic devotion, I've fashioned my name
To the thing people hate and fear.

The cacophonous din of battle
Is as a symphony unto mine ears.
The death screams of numberless enemies
Comfort me through the uncounted years.

I’ve lain waste to all manner of nations.
I have sundered the bloodlines of kings.
The grim reaper’s envy burns hot on my brow,
But I am unmoved by such things.

Your gleaming spires; your glittering halls,
I contemptuously disdain.
I'll hold fast to the field where havoc resides,
And steel and fire reign.

At the last, I'll decline all redemption,
And depart of this poor, mortal shell.
And descend to the flames—with my grandest of aims:
To lock horns with the devil—in hell!