Is this my soul in quartz vision.
Alas my spirit sight
For no man charms, nor the pleasant gifts of Arabia,
Shall please me.
The heat-oppressed brains, the dagger towards my hand,
I shall never assume a blood spill or the wisdoms of an old man,
Neither will I dream of Banquos grave to suite me.
But wonder not, for nature seems dead and man dreams of wicked abuse,
That he cares less a god in palpable form.
Nay to all false creation, for I shall knock the gates of hell and seek the spiteful,
Blades of Satan.
For my enemies shall sorrow as my soul plead for life.
For I shall move the oceans to the rivers, and change the surface of the sky as to
Come, come, return my soul and thy days will be numbered.
But failure of an accord, shall rage me anger,
And warning to thee, that my soul sleeps not,
Until the taste of my horrors justify a means.