In a murky morning’s skies,
A sole winged demon flies.
Then in troubled waters it detects
What its rippling surface reflects.
The abomination of its own image
It can but hope to be a mirage,
Yet there it ever sits and stares,
With brows beetling and teeth bared,
Now it knows its form it is wretched,
In its mind the thought comes etched:
I am evil, all hope I had forlorn,
Never should I have been born.
Now I am trapped inside this skin,
How can I ever escape from within?
For long hours of desolation,
With nowhere to find consolation,
There the monster sits in spite,
Its wings ever held high upright.
As it glowers into its own eyes,
Hued as if with crimson dyes,
In its heart deep hatred grows,
As down by the pool it bows.
And as it let its fury slowly wax,
Its hand tightly clutches its axe.
Round its helve its fist is clenched,
As in hatred its heart is drenched,
When at once it gives vent to a roar,
And all of a sudden its figure soars,
When it brings its axe overhead,
Wishing now only to be dead,
And gives one last hellish scream,
While on his lips grows a devilish beam.
Oh demonic creature by hell spawned,
No fate you merit but being drawn.
You are meant but for fire and brimstone;
Your fate should hold its tortures alone.
For a moment it held the axe aloft,
And then, without any further thought,
The creature struck into its own chest,
And blood spurted forth from its breast.
After a spell of the greatest agony,
Soon it was freed from its own tyranny
Now its only task at last was done,
Before long its forces were gone.
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