Every Emperor I invoked
Every Wheel I cast led back to you
Every time I spoke of Lucaine
My voice dripping with anachronistic libido
I was thinking of you
Impaling me on your Two Arts blade

Every breath I drew of amaranthine haze
As my hordes materialized from nothing
Ogres, hobgoblins, stranger beasties still
The First Wave
Second Wave
The Last
(So far)
Were all just the rhythms of our rutting
And I would sell all of Tezlari-tarin
For a single one of your aureate locks

They can tear Sartan apart into Shaitan and Apollyon
And cobble them back together
A thousand times over
For all I care
In that interim, I've tasted your breath but once
And they are still millennia behind

I hope there is another Bal'met
I hope there's scores of them
Until we're cleansed of our parasites
Until Achaea gleams like a perfect pearl
But even then my love for you
Would make that gleam pale
Beneath its blinding opalescence

They had to kill Lady Selene to make you
But it was worth it
And I would kill a hundred more
But you're too sweet to ask that of me

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Miraman, in the year 956 AF.