"Down on your knees!", they cried...And one by one we fell.
My Wings hacked off as they lay me in sacrifice to Him...
Losing control of my consciousness once more, my soul calls on "him"...
"Him" who is the destroyer of all! "Him" who lies in each and every figurine!

Cold and bloody he sits...His longsword in hand, overlaid with gore...
The aroma of Death sitting quietly into the stocks of air...
His dark wings spread...Drizzled with the freshly cried tears of Vastar..
My Persona...Slaughtering his own kind...Is my work done...or "his"?


Side Note - My Poem relates to a Physiological Disorder, where one's unconsious is another being's (Inside of yourself) conscious, Also known as Id.

Lyndal Artias

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Aeguary, in the year 275 AF.