Roland4x

Summoned from your bower in the bosom of the earth, You rise to command the sky for He who waits, While the frosted moon watches in secret rapture. You soar, night-bitten through liquid air, Beneath your eldritch form stretch leathern vanes, Whole pulse is the heartbeat of newborn novae. Beneath your ivory fingers, a cloak of pitch trails tattered banners through midnight airs, Threadbare, blacker than the firmament at the darkening of the moon, Blacker than the gulf between moribund worlds. Your cry tears the sky: the scream of rusted iron on glass, Its pitch a herald, an icy draught to freeze the hearts Of those who dare oppose t