My mind is troubled by these restless past,
The horrors I’ve seen that set stone and cast.
For too long I’ve idled my fruitless affairs,
Burying the dead and all those who dare.
But now, my ghosts has come to haunt me,
Yet I know that I cannot be free.
Do I hesitate to take upon the sword?
Knowing I would, once more, be the dreaded lord?
Whispers that speak in their silent tune,
Only I, myself, could hear that accursed boon.
It ravishes my delight, enjoying my doom,
For I took to the sword at this very room.
For none would escape my unending wrath,
No given quarter, but soak in crimson bath.
The Dreaded Lord, I was, shall be whole,
Hesitant I was, but embrace, my role.