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7 Words.
Axis Shift.
Anarchic tremors
drive deep down
the fault lines
of repose.
Broken jaw sirens
sound the alarm.
The forcefield of evergreens
crumble to rust and decay.
Split, weathered fingers
meld into hammer hands,
and these feet, the war machines.
Haste the retreat,
only the gates of time
keep your fate at bay.
...and I will break them down.
There in your ruin
I shall claim Your bride,
my chariot, and ride into
the long hours of your demise.
At each gaze the walls of your empire
will set ablaze in the fury you wrought
and crush you beneath it's pitiful weight.
At last.
When my will is done,
I shall cast my seeds
into the the wells
of your beloved,
and spit on your mound.
So flowers of my hatred
shall flourish for ages
on the gravelands of your fathers.
And even the summerlands
you wander in death
will bear my crest.
Pawns are no match for a king.
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