The wind whips through my light clothing.
It's howling wail pierces my concentration
as it fills my consciousness with it's mourning song.
Reeling, I struggle to remember...
to remember what I've done. Why I'm here.
The screams of a thousand innocents ring in my ears...
the echoes of a great battlefield.
It begins to pass over me, but I reach out
reach up to grab at the ethereal cloud of my misdoings.
It amuses me... the blood of my enemies.
They call them the Chosen,
and I am the Forsaken.
I stroll down the cloud walkway until I reach the gate.
I shake my fist and spit on the golden metal,
and even as I do so, I am greeted by my enemy.
St. Peter looms before me, his spectral body coating my face in a soft blue glow.
But I, I walk past him.
My business is with his liege.
As I approach the polished throne,
a seat gilded with the lies of Joseph, of Abraham, of all his little servants,
I look my foe straight in his golden orbs of deciet,
and I cross my arms, unimpressed.
He looks at me and says unto the heavens,
"the time of your judgement has come, heathen.
You must pay for your misdeeds."
And as his demons swarm me, thier angelic claws reaching for my throat,
I draw my sword from the sheath.
I look the holy spectre in his lying eyes,
and as I battle his minions, I sing my Ascension Song,
and I go down a hero to the oppressed.

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