The Speaker only once spoke of this place so evil,
So vilely corrupt, that the air itself suffered,
Heavy with hatred and despair,
Ripping at the hearts of mortals
Who dared walk its foul grounds.
Chicanery spewed from the accursed tongues
of ancient creatures
Lost to the ages
bestowed upon the land a life of its own
To breed and cultivate the hate it thrived on.
Anyone and anything that dared
Live under its starless orange sky was changed,
Irrevocably, forever.
But, as with anything left to the pages of history and fable,
This place the Speaker had created
Dropped into legend, a child’s tale to frighten
Naughty little girls and boys into doing
What their gods deemed right and proper,
Never knowing that even mentioning
The name of this horrid place could render flesh
And destroy the delicate fabric of peace
The five tribes strive to create.
Luckily, the name was lost,
Dying with those careless enough to speak it.
That is, until now.
Torches flaming within alcoves
Carved into the rock face were the only points of reference
In the darkened cavern.
Hints of movement from the shadows
Reminded the priest that he was not alone,
But he might as well have been.
The depth of the blackness
Below him was nearly complete.
His vantage point on the rock outcropping over the pit
Was unnerving, for he knew not what waited below.
To his left and right along the thin ledge,
His colleagues stood at attention,
All eagerly awaiting this momentous occasion.
The priest stood before the ancient text,
hands shaking and brow soaked
Watching the words on the page
Dance away from his understanding,
Teasing him to speak the Name.
Taking a deep breath,
The priest calmed his mind.
His lungs filled with the fragrant incense
Burning in the many small altars
Erected around the mouth of the chasm,
Each member of the order paying personal tribute
To the one that ruled them all.
From below,
The putrid small of rotting flesh wafted up out of the pit
The fresh kills still spilling life blood
Upon the sacred bedrock.
He had been chosen for this duty above all others.
The priest lifted his hands to begin.
The grace of his dark lord
Charged his spell with unholy power.
The words leapt from his mouth violently,
Vomiting them into the blackened space before him.
He stumbled forward,
Nearly toppling into the darkness.
Catching himself on the podium,
He wiped the blood from his lips
With the already blood soaked hem of his white robes,
Convulsed once and fell to his knees.
Mind, body and spirit tried desperately
To keep the cohesive force that defines mortal life,
But he knew it was hopeless.
The opening lines of the incantation
Had already rendered his soul to
A distant memory of his former self.
He had already gone too far to ever turn back.
With shaking hands,
The priest struck the hard ground,
Causing a spark to flare to life,
Pushing back the tangible darkness briefly,
The sound seemingly swallowed by the
Gapping darkness ahead.
Again the spark flared to life and,
This time, his candle caught the failing ember
And burst into flame.
In the meager light,
The priest saw the podium towering above him,
Blood soaked and scared
As sure as if he had sacrificed himself on a wicked altar.
He had, in a way,
For he knew that to open this portal
Was to give up all hope of a mortal life,
A life given freely by the governing forces of the universe.
This was anti-nature, anti-life,
A means of existing created
Not in accordance with any natural law or order,
But a living force of the greed and hatred
Purely man made.
The priest smiled,
Causing the fresh sores on his face to tear further.
The change had already begun.
He could see in the light of tallow that his arms
Had been scared and stripped of life,
His flesh now black and flaking
As if infernal fires had somehow burned him.
Touching his face, he felt the bones of his skull moving and Distorting strangely with a pain
That was beyond mortal comprehension,
A pain that numbed the mind
And rendered any sense of self-preservation useless.
The dulling throb wracked the mind more than the body,
Twisting and molding the innate malevolence
Within into a force to sustain the body indefinitely,
Forever.
Immortality was at hand.
All he had to do was finish the chant.
“Finish the chant,” whispered a voice
Within his decaying mind.
The voice was choked and mucus filled.
After a moment,
He realized it came from somewhere along the ledge.
“Finish the chant!”
“When the darkness falls away, then shall we see,”
Said the priest.
The words sounded raspy and course,
Not at all the fluid calming tones he once had.
Touching his throat, the priest found that his
skin had rotted away, exposing his larynx.
“Now is the time,” echoed another voice
From across the cavernous room,
This one sounding shrill
But barely audible in the dead silence.
Balancing himself on his now exposed leg bones,
The priest forced his dying flesh to yield to his will.
Cracking and tearing with the effort,
Chunks of his flesh fell away.
Now standing tall on nothing but personal will,
The priest’s skeletal hand
Painlessly extinguished the candle.
Instantly, the cavern was bathed in an eerie blue light,
Looking like a deep forest meadow
Under the Nightstar’s midnight glare.
Around the unholy circle,
The priest could make out the eyes of his
Fellow members as floating yellow orbs
Shining in the darkness.
Heat emanations from the lava beds
far below the bedrock glowed
a soft orange to the eyes of the newly undead,
broken only by the black lines of blood rivulets
splaying out from the pile of cooling bodies in the corner.
The extinguishing life force
of the skeletal priests around the circle
glimmered a deep blue with the icy grip of death’s hand.
Around each priest, a layer of frost clung to the rocks.
The once blazing torches smothered in the chill.
“The darkness falls away,” chanted a priest
across the chasm,
his skull exposed and jaw bone hanging lifeless from what remained of his face.
His voice was disembodied and hollow.
“So to the dark lord we pray,” came another voice.
“To see the light that is never seen in the day,”
yelled another one.
“Mighty Speaker, show us the way.”
Evil laughter followed,
the priests each reveling in their new found forms.
“Silence!” yelled the priest before the podium,
his eyes glowing a deep red.
“I must finish the chant!” His voice too had
transcended this world,
and sounded hollow and empty.
“Yes, finish the chant!”, all the priests yelled
almost in unison,
leaping like ravenous animals to the edge of the chasm.
Finger bones clicked noisily on the bloody stones.
Greenish drool dripped from their bared teeth.
Looking down at the book,
he saw that the words no longer mocked his mortal form.
Instead, complete understanding.
The path ahead was clear.
So vilely corrupt, that the air itself suffered,
Heavy with hatred and despair,
Ripping at the hearts of mortals
Who dared walk its foul grounds.
Chicanery spewed from the accursed tongues
of ancient creatures
Lost to the ages
bestowed upon the land a life of its own
To breed and cultivate the hate it thrived on.
Anyone and anything that dared
Live under its starless orange sky was changed,
Irrevocably, forever.
But, as with anything left to the pages of history and fable,
This place the Speaker had created
Dropped into legend, a child’s tale to frighten
Naughty little girls and boys into doing
What their gods deemed right and proper,
Never knowing that even mentioning
The name of this horrid place could render flesh
And destroy the delicate fabric of peace
The five tribes strive to create.
Luckily, the name was lost,
Dying with those careless enough to speak it.
That is, until now.
Torches flaming within alcoves
Carved into the rock face were the only points of reference
In the darkened cavern.
Hints of movement from the shadows
Reminded the priest that he was not alone,
But he might as well have been.
The depth of the blackness
Below him was nearly complete.
His vantage point on the rock outcropping over the pit
Was unnerving, for he knew not what waited below.
To his left and right along the thin ledge,
His colleagues stood at attention,
All eagerly awaiting this momentous occasion.
The priest stood before the ancient text,
hands shaking and brow soaked
Watching the words on the page
Dance away from his understanding,
Teasing him to speak the Name.
Taking a deep breath,
The priest calmed his mind.
His lungs filled with the fragrant incense
Burning in the many small altars
Erected around the mouth of the chasm,
Each member of the order paying personal tribute
To the one that ruled them all.
From below,
The putrid small of rotting flesh wafted up out of the pit
The fresh kills still spilling life blood
Upon the sacred bedrock.
He had been chosen for this duty above all others.
The priest lifted his hands to begin.
The grace of his dark lord
Charged his spell with unholy power.
The words leapt from his mouth violently,
Vomiting them into the blackened space before him.
He stumbled forward,
Nearly toppling into the darkness.
Catching himself on the podium,
He wiped the blood from his lips
With the already blood soaked hem of his white robes,
Convulsed once and fell to his knees.
Mind, body and spirit tried desperately
To keep the cohesive force that defines mortal life,
But he knew it was hopeless.
The opening lines of the incantation
Had already rendered his soul to
A distant memory of his former self.
He had already gone too far to ever turn back.
With shaking hands,
The priest struck the hard ground,
Causing a spark to flare to life,
Pushing back the tangible darkness briefly,
The sound seemingly swallowed by the
Gapping darkness ahead.
Again the spark flared to life and,
This time, his candle caught the failing ember
And burst into flame.
In the meager light,
The priest saw the podium towering above him,
Blood soaked and scared
As sure as if he had sacrificed himself on a wicked altar.
He had, in a way,
For he knew that to open this portal
Was to give up all hope of a mortal life,
A life given freely by the governing forces of the universe.
This was anti-nature, anti-life,
A means of existing created
Not in accordance with any natural law or order,
But a living force of the greed and hatred
Purely man made.
The priest smiled,
Causing the fresh sores on his face to tear further.
The change had already begun.
He could see in the light of tallow that his arms
Had been scared and stripped of life,
His flesh now black and flaking
As if infernal fires had somehow burned him.
Touching his face, he felt the bones of his skull moving and Distorting strangely with a pain
That was beyond mortal comprehension,
A pain that numbed the mind
And rendered any sense of self-preservation useless.
The dulling throb wracked the mind more than the body,
Twisting and molding the innate malevolence
Within into a force to sustain the body indefinitely,
Forever.
Immortality was at hand.
All he had to do was finish the chant.
“Finish the chant,” whispered a voice
Within his decaying mind.
The voice was choked and mucus filled.
After a moment,
He realized it came from somewhere along the ledge.
“Finish the chant!”
“When the darkness falls away, then shall we see,”
Said the priest.
The words sounded raspy and course,
Not at all the fluid calming tones he once had.
Touching his throat, the priest found that his
skin had rotted away, exposing his larynx.
“Now is the time,” echoed another voice
From across the cavernous room,
This one sounding shrill
But barely audible in the dead silence.
Balancing himself on his now exposed leg bones,
The priest forced his dying flesh to yield to his will.
Cracking and tearing with the effort,
Chunks of his flesh fell away.
Now standing tall on nothing but personal will,
The priest’s skeletal hand
Painlessly extinguished the candle.
Instantly, the cavern was bathed in an eerie blue light,
Looking like a deep forest meadow
Under the Nightstar’s midnight glare.
Around the unholy circle,
The priest could make out the eyes of his
Fellow members as floating yellow orbs
Shining in the darkness.
Heat emanations from the lava beds
far below the bedrock glowed
a soft orange to the eyes of the newly undead,
broken only by the black lines of blood rivulets
splaying out from the pile of cooling bodies in the corner.
The extinguishing life force
of the skeletal priests around the circle
glimmered a deep blue with the icy grip of death’s hand.
Around each priest, a layer of frost clung to the rocks.
The once blazing torches smothered in the chill.
“The darkness falls away,” chanted a priest
across the chasm,
his skull exposed and jaw bone hanging lifeless from what remained of his face.
His voice was disembodied and hollow.
“So to the dark lord we pray,” came another voice.
“To see the light that is never seen in the day,”
yelled another one.
“Mighty Speaker, show us the way.”
Evil laughter followed,
the priests each reveling in their new found forms.
“Silence!” yelled the priest before the podium,
his eyes glowing a deep red.
“I must finish the chant!” His voice too had
transcended this world,
and sounded hollow and empty.
“Yes, finish the chant!”, all the priests yelled
almost in unison,
leaping like ravenous animals to the edge of the chasm.
Finger bones clicked noisily on the bloody stones.
Greenish drool dripped from their bared teeth.
Looking down at the book,
he saw that the words no longer mocked his mortal form.
Instead, complete understanding.
The path ahead was clear.
Sample of my work. Thoughts?
I write this to untwist the tale that twists within
Just beginning to end and back again
Or maybe end to beginning would be more apt
The tale unfolds before me and long before me
In a knot so tight
as to shroud the truth from those less astute than I
Time and space and the other scheme to erase the signs,
but I do see
The patterns in the tomes of old taunt me with clue and riddle,
But I know in my soul that it is there.
Understanding of it all is not required of you
Just know that through it all, I do
My words are true although of events I cannot currently foresee
I simply wish to record my journey
to wow the avid follower of shiny things
But if, by chance, a reader of depth can to the world a new accepting bring, so much the better.
I strive to find the role I play with indifference
towards the obstacles in my path
Although I am pursued at every turn
By those who would see my undoing and hide the truth
I must know these things that define
the beginning, the middle, the end
Dimensions three show me the path
The Third showing place, the Forth forcing motion
They collude in quantum
Time and space are one and not
But one in the same is the product of both
The formula of the Fifth, for symbols fail
The first of the three is the Third,
The dimension of position
I see structure within, a framework construct of epic proportions
Regardless of the Fourth, infinite space fills all knowing and being
In the worlds of the others that is, not this one
Finite I have found here, piecing from clues through the ages
Edges define our tiny oasis far enough out to hide the loneness
Or unseen bars hold us as penitence for crimes unknown
In either event, Creators be damned
I seek the seeds of their intent
The second of the three is the Forth,
The dimension defining the journey through
Forward momentum hurdling in lines and circles
Filling the Third with cycles
of growth and destruction, renewal and attrition
Lines of intent wend their paths,
converging and diverging into infinite possibilities
I know this only in book, for this is not the way of my world
Time is random when viewed from a distance,
yet we are random as well
Following the twists and turns of the Forth,
we see the world as linear
Knowledge gives me the vantage
although I too am caught within perceived linearity
There must be a mechanism by which this can be controlled,
so seek it I must
The third of the three is the Fifth,
The dimension of order from chaos, chaos from order
Waves of nothing fold in and out,
appear and disappear, exist, then not
A chaotic shapeless mass of nothingness to the untrained eye
The Fifth colludes with space and time,
providing a fabric on which they exists
Interacting in quantum,
the mesh providing those of sufficient intellect opportunity
Before you lose your faith and conclude me completely mad
I will tell of an intellect keen and a mind resolved
As with most such as me, I prefer solitude over comradery
Books fill the gaps in between
Ancient parchment delicate and fine
caress my fingers with a lovers’ grace
Aged leather bindings smell sensual to say the least
But it is the knowledge within that truly ignites
Intimate details within the phrases turned through the ages
By those whose words live on, if only in memory or in song
Show of a people and of a place and of a time beyond this one
Forty-seven languages, that is what I speak,
Each spoken in their own time, either now or then or then
Dead will and would be called in the fullness of time
In this time, in this place, I put them in my context
Yet each one is a tool, a puzzle piece
to use and twist and find its place within it all
A window into a culture into its time’s past
Where living and knowledge and secrets were amassed
To be found by someone such as me, a simple man,
a linguist with the keys
A list of each would not be proper
For knowledge should not be wasted on the unknowing
The list would grow with the telling, of dialects unending
People with to each other a communication is sot
Through inflection, tone and nuance
Defining themselves as brothers, as sisters and kin
Two hundred and thirty-three dialects to me are know
Denoting another level of sympathy,
the root of a society delved by me
This is what I hope to do here and dismiss the rumor,
the conjecture and the fear
To speak in dialect you will understand.
My name is Nibenmendl.
Thus I begin.
I am a driven man
Events beyond my control have left me wanting
thus living a fate that I will never see as tragically random
Life has not been kind to me.
Memories of times past tear at my resolve,
but I must remain strong.
Those that know me patronize, using my mind to do their bidding.
Those who do know not shun,
going great distances to avoid seeing this tortured visage.
None of my doing,
but I must wage battle against those in my dreams,
As unclear and elusive as the minute electro-chemical synapse
Snapping over and over and over,
pushing and pushing, feeling after feeling
cascading down, down, down, flooding the cannels of the mind
meant to balance and hold the highs and the lows
under lock and key.
But the key is lost, the lock melted to so much slag.
I write this to untwist the tale that twists within
Just beginning to end and back again
Or maybe end to beginning would be more apt
The tale unfolds before me and long before me
In a knot so tight
as to shroud the truth from those less astute than I
Time and space and the other scheme to erase the signs,
but I do see
The patterns in the tomes of old taunt me with clue and riddle,
But I know in my soul that it is there.
Understanding of it all is not required of you
Just know that through it all, I do
My words are true although of events I cannot currently foresee
I simply wish to record my journey
to wow the avid follower of shiny things
But if, by chance, a reader of depth can to the world a new accepting bring, so much the better.
I strive to find the role I play with indifference
towards the obstacles in my path
Although I am pursued at every turn
By those who would see my undoing and hide the truth
I must know these things that define
the beginning, the middle, the end
Dimensions three show me the path
The Third showing place, the Forth forcing motion
They collude in quantum
Time and space are one and not
But one in the same is the product of both
The formula of the Fifth, for symbols fail
The first of the three is the Third,
The dimension of position
I see structure within, a framework construct of epic proportions
Regardless of the Fourth, infinite space fills all knowing and being
In the worlds of the others that is, not this one
Finite I have found here, piecing from clues through the ages
Edges define our tiny oasis far enough out to hide the loneness
Or unseen bars hold us as penitence for crimes unknown
In either event, Creators be damned
I seek the seeds of their intent
The second of the three is the Forth,
The dimension defining the journey through
Forward momentum hurdling in lines and circles
Filling the Third with cycles
of growth and destruction, renewal and attrition
Lines of intent wend their paths,
converging and diverging into infinite possibilities
I know this only in book, for this is not the way of my world
Time is random when viewed from a distance,
yet we are random as well
Following the twists and turns of the Forth,
we see the world as linear
Knowledge gives me the vantage
although I too am caught within perceived linearity
There must be a mechanism by which this can be controlled,
so seek it I must
The third of the three is the Fifth,
The dimension of order from chaos, chaos from order
Waves of nothing fold in and out,
appear and disappear, exist, then not
A chaotic shapeless mass of nothingness to the untrained eye
The Fifth colludes with space and time,
providing a fabric on which they exists
Interacting in quantum,
the mesh providing those of sufficient intellect opportunity
Before you lose your faith and conclude me completely mad
I will tell of an intellect keen and a mind resolved
As with most such as me, I prefer solitude over comradery
Books fill the gaps in between
Ancient parchment delicate and fine
caress my fingers with a lovers’ grace
Aged leather bindings smell sensual to say the least
But it is the knowledge within that truly ignites
Intimate details within the phrases turned through the ages
By those whose words live on, if only in memory or in song
Show of a people and of a place and of a time beyond this one
Forty-seven languages, that is what I speak,
Each spoken in their own time, either now or then or then
Dead will and would be called in the fullness of time
In this time, in this place, I put them in my context
Yet each one is a tool, a puzzle piece
to use and twist and find its place within it all
A window into a culture into its time’s past
Where living and knowledge and secrets were amassed
To be found by someone such as me, a simple man,
a linguist with the keys
A list of each would not be proper
For knowledge should not be wasted on the unknowing
The list would grow with the telling, of dialects unending
People with to each other a communication is sot
Through inflection, tone and nuance
Defining themselves as brothers, as sisters and kin
Two hundred and thirty-three dialects to me are know
Denoting another level of sympathy,
the root of a society delved by me
This is what I hope to do here and dismiss the rumor,
the conjecture and the fear
To speak in dialect you will understand.
My name is Nibenmendl.
Thus I begin.
I am a driven man
Events beyond my control have left me wanting
thus living a fate that I will never see as tragically random
Life has not been kind to me.
Memories of times past tear at my resolve,
but I must remain strong.
Those that know me patronize, using my mind to do their bidding.
Those who do know not shun,
going great distances to avoid seeing this tortured visage.
None of my doing,
but I must wage battle against those in my dreams,
As unclear and elusive as the minute electro-chemical synapse
Snapping over and over and over,
pushing and pushing, feeling after feeling
cascading down, down, down, flooding the cannels of the mind
meant to balance and hold the highs and the lows
under lock and key.
But the key is lost, the lock melted to so much slag.
I seem to have run to the end of my musings. The things that cloud the real and keep the darkness at bay have left me today, leaving the shell. It is not as if there is nothing there, there are plenty of things to occupy the endless hours I have to wait to the end of this stalemate between birth and death. Even I see that this is nothing in the eyes of the end. It will come whether I solve this puzzle and that, even if I discover or propagate or murder or any such nonsense the world might throw in my path. A new distraction will come along soon, they say, and it always does in the form of a mind numbing exposé furthering the ends of the those that profit off of others need to hide from the world.
These sounds are just of gathering muses, my mind looking. The words of a thousand stories fill my mind needing to be told, but the distractions come too easily for any length of focus required of such an endeavor. The people in the stories seem so real to me. They are just and noble, friend that would give the world to another out of a sense of something or other. But they falter also. They have the psychosis of us all even though they are fraught with danger in fantastic worlds of my devise, they all have the same weakness to emotion that we all have. For this reason it is increasingly difficult for me to create a villain. Everyone has the villain and hero within them and showing this in a work of fiction is a daunting task to say the least.
I fail to see the point of making a single minded villain out to do nothing but destroy. There must be a reason behind, a story that makes this person who they are. But does there?
The Joker in Batman Returns is one such villain, one of the best single performances in movie history, may his soul rest. The Joker only exists to hate. His only goal is to destroy that which no one else can destroy, simply because he can. Material reward is pointless in his world. But why does this appeal? In our world, regardless of what grand beliefs we think we have, material possessions are the driving force. They tell us who we are and what our status in the world is. Without these things thrown on us by our own philosophies, we are called outcast, lower class, homeless. The villain sees none of that. Order is just a perceived notion that a rotating economy gives, a centrifuge of worthless paper held aloft by our forward momentum that we see one day has to end. It doesn’t, but that is the perception. The Joker shows that the end can come, that no one can stand against it. He is the immovable object challenging the unstoppable force, he is the eternal fear of the coming end versus the promise of a better tomorrow. The reflection of ourselves is easy to see from this vantage.
But still, the Joker is just immovable, there is no emotion to drive the villain that any but the deranged can truly identify with. The other side of this coin is Magneto from the X-Men. He was a young boy of savage beginnings. His young life was filled with hate and persecution of being Jewish in WWII Europe. His parents were taken from him and killed in a German concentration camp. Even with the great power be possessed, he could not save them from this fate. In his later years, he was used and experimented on, driving the hate his virgin soul did not want to feel for this is the basic way of the innocent heart, to not hate. He learned hate and that this hate brought great power, power he wished his could have used to save his family and his people from the Nazi holocaust. But he could not. Nothing could change the past, but the future, that is something that can be understood and controlled.
Magneto saw the persecution of his fellow mutants just as he did that of the Jews. He saw a force of will fighting against who he and his brethren were, even though they did not choose to be who they were. Ignorance and fear drove the normals to claiming them outcast and enemy, just like the war machine that took away his parents. In light of all of this, I do not see Magneto as a villain, but a tragic hero following the only path he knew. The world created him. He was not born to hate this world, but the world made him hate, forced it upon him and giving him the iron resolve to stand up against those that would seek to enslave or destroy his kind. Isn’t this a noble gesture of a tragic hero?
I’ll come up with something….
These sounds are just of gathering muses, my mind looking. The words of a thousand stories fill my mind needing to be told, but the distractions come too easily for any length of focus required of such an endeavor. The people in the stories seem so real to me. They are just and noble, friend that would give the world to another out of a sense of something or other. But they falter also. They have the psychosis of us all even though they are fraught with danger in fantastic worlds of my devise, they all have the same weakness to emotion that we all have. For this reason it is increasingly difficult for me to create a villain. Everyone has the villain and hero within them and showing this in a work of fiction is a daunting task to say the least.
I fail to see the point of making a single minded villain out to do nothing but destroy. There must be a reason behind, a story that makes this person who they are. But does there?
The Joker in Batman Returns is one such villain, one of the best single performances in movie history, may his soul rest. The Joker only exists to hate. His only goal is to destroy that which no one else can destroy, simply because he can. Material reward is pointless in his world. But why does this appeal? In our world, regardless of what grand beliefs we think we have, material possessions are the driving force. They tell us who we are and what our status in the world is. Without these things thrown on us by our own philosophies, we are called outcast, lower class, homeless. The villain sees none of that. Order is just a perceived notion that a rotating economy gives, a centrifuge of worthless paper held aloft by our forward momentum that we see one day has to end. It doesn’t, but that is the perception. The Joker shows that the end can come, that no one can stand against it. He is the immovable object challenging the unstoppable force, he is the eternal fear of the coming end versus the promise of a better tomorrow. The reflection of ourselves is easy to see from this vantage.
But still, the Joker is just immovable, there is no emotion to drive the villain that any but the deranged can truly identify with. The other side of this coin is Magneto from the X-Men. He was a young boy of savage beginnings. His young life was filled with hate and persecution of being Jewish in WWII Europe. His parents were taken from him and killed in a German concentration camp. Even with the great power be possessed, he could not save them from this fate. In his later years, he was used and experimented on, driving the hate his virgin soul did not want to feel for this is the basic way of the innocent heart, to not hate. He learned hate and that this hate brought great power, power he wished his could have used to save his family and his people from the Nazi holocaust. But he could not. Nothing could change the past, but the future, that is something that can be understood and controlled.
Magneto saw the persecution of his fellow mutants just as he did that of the Jews. He saw a force of will fighting against who he and his brethren were, even though they did not choose to be who they were. Ignorance and fear drove the normals to claiming them outcast and enemy, just like the war machine that took away his parents. In light of all of this, I do not see Magneto as a villain, but a tragic hero following the only path he knew. The world created him. He was not born to hate this world, but the world made him hate, forced it upon him and giving him the iron resolve to stand up against those that would seek to enslave or destroy his kind. Isn’t this a noble gesture of a tragic hero?
I’ll come up with something….
Don't be aroused, by my confession
Unless you don't give a good Goddamn about redemption
I know Christ is comin', so am I
You would too if the sexy devil caught your eye
She'll suck you dry
And still you'll cry, to be back in her bosom
To do it again
She'll make you weep
And mourn and cry, to be back in her bosom
To do it again
(Pray) Til' I go blind
(Pray) Cause nobody ever survives
prayin to stay in her arms just until I can die a little bit longer
Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike
She'll eat you alive
Jesus is risen, it's no surprise
Even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs
The pressure is building, on the base of my spine
If I gotta sin to see you again then I'm gonna lie lie lie
She'll make you cry
I'll sell my soul, to be back in her bosom
Gladly now please suck me dry
And still you'll cry, to be back in her bosom
To do it again
(Pray) Til' I go blind
(Pray) Cause nobody ever survives
Prayin' to stay in her arms just until I can die a little longer
Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike
She'll eat you alive
My pulse has been rising
My temple is pounding
The pressure is so overwhelming and building
So steady they're fretting I'm ready to blow
What is she what is she what is she waiting for?
(Pray) Til' I go blind
(Pray) Cause nobody ever survives
prayin to stay in her arms just until I can die a little bit longer
Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike
She'll eat you alive
Unless you don't give a good Goddamn about redemption
I know Christ is comin', so am I
You would too if the sexy devil caught your eye
She'll suck you dry
And still you'll cry, to be back in her bosom
To do it again
She'll make you weep
And mourn and cry, to be back in her bosom
To do it again
(Pray) Til' I go blind
(Pray) Cause nobody ever survives
prayin to stay in her arms just until I can die a little bit longer
Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike
She'll eat you alive
Jesus is risen, it's no surprise
Even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs
The pressure is building, on the base of my spine
If I gotta sin to see you again then I'm gonna lie lie lie
She'll make you cry
I'll sell my soul, to be back in her bosom
Gladly now please suck me dry
And still you'll cry, to be back in her bosom
To do it again
(Pray) Til' I go blind
(Pray) Cause nobody ever survives
Prayin' to stay in her arms just until I can die a little longer
Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike
She'll eat you alive
My pulse has been rising
My temple is pounding
The pressure is so overwhelming and building
So steady they're fretting I'm ready to blow
What is she what is she what is she waiting for?
(Pray) Til' I go blind
(Pray) Cause nobody ever survives
prayin to stay in her arms just until I can die a little bit longer
Saviors and saints, devils and heathens alike
She'll eat you alive
Queen Adreena - Kittie Collar Tight
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
I hold your history
And i kiss the map
I'm looking back forwards
Your tap drips, i...catch
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Your skin, my nails
Your mirror, my face
Your skin impaled
For your scars are my grace
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
I hold your history
And i kiss the map
I'm looking back forwards
Your tap drips, i...catch
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Your skin, my nails
Your mirror, my face
Your skin impaled
For your scars are my grace
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Watch how i put it on
Kitty collar tight!
Make it sing it's song
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
Make it fight
Make it fight, fight!
