I am he who prowls the cold and rainy
dream streets of your heart, searching for the
grand delight of my pleasure fulfilled. My
scimitar claws are razor sharp but my fanged
teeth are sharper still. I am he who, in the
night, stalks though your dreams and makes
your breathing stop, silent, until I pass you
by in the shadows. Still, the faint memory
of me lingers on your tongue as you waken
with latent images of my sharp crystal-blue
eyes of fire and of ice upon your fleeting
pillow. I am the one not quite remembered
that you furtively call Daemon or Monster
or Nightmare. There once was a time when
you called me the Bogeyman, but that was
long ago in another land.
Am I reality or fantasy? Most are afraid to
admit, yet I live in each one of my accuser's
hearts. I notice the unnoticeable. I tend the
untenable. You see, I am the Beast Within
who has been feared for so long. I waltz
with the witches under the ribald moon in
the midst of the forest but depart before the
fiery orb peeks over the tree tops, for I am a
creature of the darkness, at home in the
night. There, I ripen the harvest of every
battle and bring forth unholy destruction
upon mine enemies, causing their delicious
juices to flow into the hot sand on the field
of testing. I am the hatred that makes red
blood flow black in the hearts of man, and I
am the war cry that you feel in the back of
your throat when you tire of the mundane,
and weary of accepting the threats of fools.
My name is WAR!
I Ride a 7-headed, winged dragon of fiery
countenance and watch the soul parade of
men pass by, unawares. I lick my ax after
striking off the heads of my victims and care
not where they fall. Know my voice that
lives within your profane heart. Yes, know
me well for I howl at the moon of lovers lost
and know the pain of a thousand men on the
battlefield of truth. The lily of peace waits
not for me, for I know not death only pain
and the waltz of war. I have the power of a
thousand swirling sunsets and I can brew a
million hurricanes within my breast to spew
them out upon the Earth like a hawk, wings
furled, swooping down upon up a mouse in
the dead of winter. I know nothing of the
song of the maiden's heart, only the beat of
the warrior's drum, and so I shall return to
the cold and rainy streets of your dreams and
continue my search until I find one ready to
call may name. Should you fully remember
me, ask not why I am there-- because you
shall know.
