Pale Rider

Ride forth with your burden of gilt,  
in a fit of rage and redemption.  
You are death; none can excel.  
Your fealty eludes compassion.  
 
That fateful scythe possessed with power.  
The souls of your brethren sealed in your chest.  
Eternal cries of the ones you damned,  
forever wailing on the razor's edge.  
 
The one you called brother,  
slain by your hand,  
sold himself to power,  
and corruption was born anew.  
 
Unfolding, vitiating  
more worlds then one.  
The tree of life has fallen,  
to this wretched blight.  
 
The Shadow realms succumb.  
In waters black they are swallowed.  
And the demons fall to its lure,  
now slaves to one will.  
 
In the farthest corners of existence,  
deep in the heart of the dead-lands,  
riding despair, guided by dust,  
what terrors await the wicked!  
 
An audience demanded;  
The King of the Dead.  
A favor paid.  
No answers given.  
 
Restitution drives you now.  
Concern for justice matters not,  
as long as your duty remains unchanged  
Salvation is but a weapon in the wrong hands.  
 
Come to lost-light, to Angels.  
A journey most twisted and perilous.  
From the soaring peaks of the White City,  
wait for the light to purge the shadow.  
 
"The scribe is waiting"  
words of a traitor.  
An angel corrupted.  
The light dimmed.  
 
In the guise of honor,  
virtue and God,  
Suffer the world  
the sky is now wrought.  
 
Fire and ash welcomes your arrival,  
heavens burn at the sight of you.  
Kin-slayer, Executioner, Reaper,  
Who is above you?