young tulip
_Specter, phantom, revenant, banshee,
Bow before flesh, kneel, and heed his decree. Blessed art thou in the damned poet’s reverie, Entombed in the depths of his undying dynasty.
"Our wistful poet weeps,
He never sleeps nor reaps the weak.
For he grants nocturnal peace,
To all who crave his ethereal dreams."
Hear his solemn moans,
See his cloak, veiled in stone and crooked bones,
Feel the weight of his decrepit throne,
Where he groans alone as his blood atones.
Through the river of wretched souls,
We wander toward the undying halls,
Where the damned poet wields control,
Inscribing fate on tarnished scrolls.
"Our wistful poet weeps,
He never sleeps nor reaps the weak.
For he grants nocturnal peace,
To all who crave his ethereal dreams."
We seek the damned poet, divined by the seer,
To one who grieves in his garden of sepulcher and tears,
We honor his verse with devotion oh so sincere
And rejoice as forsaken spirits draw near.
Beneath the twilight, a dreaded ghoul,
Who perished for a crown's gaze both hollow and cruel.
Fear not, for the poet’s kin seek no rue,
For each lost soul, we grieve—not rule.
"Our wistful poet weeps,
He never sleeps nor reaps the weak.
For he grants nocturnal peace,
To all who crave his ethereal dreams."
Hearsed by euphoric breath,
Where chimeras lurk and wardens tread, Her Majesty lies in immortal death,
Pleading with the gods to free his son from his dejected wraiths.
He is a mortal disguised in divinity,
Enveloping himself into insanity while clutching onto humanity,
Lost in his seraphic labyrinth for all eternity,
Searching for affinity while upholding his dignity through empathy.
He is the wistful, damned poet,
Sleepless, yet he never reaps.
He seeks solace in radiant peace,
But buries lost souls in eternal dreams._
Klausyuer: The Damned Poet
nocturne iris
