The Dark Lord hadn’t mutated much over the years,

Hard, depressing scrawny eyes.

That never shed tears,

And a full entourage of flies.

He didn’t seem bothered by flies self immolation,

It was as if this was part of the drive.

After all we exist and die for creation,

These creatures had no desire to thrive.

A squalid cape encased all,

Stirring with a will of its own.

Specters of hideous beasts caressed walls,

While insects beat out a drone.

It was thy staff that said it all,

Ebony entwined with the Lords own veins.

Blood didn’t draw you could see it almost crawl,

In one unhinged glupious train.

He had schooling in the dark arts,

But rebelled against the law.

A life of destruction altering charts,

Now he throbbed like a puss ridden sore.

Why was that familiar nipping shrinking my skin?

Scraps of brittle flesh cascading like sparse confetti.

Sickness not natural my head was in a spin,

Bone hands pulled me foreword speedily giddy.

Face now close I flinched as my heart let out a scream,

It was as if he had just pushed the inner release.

I began to slowly billow dreams,

Each one unhinged from its crease.

My mind was being wiped I had to block his will,

Fingers warped a demonic ring.

Allowing more vigor even still,

Unlocking every ounce of secrets deep within.