Rudiments

As if a searing bolt scorches the sun,
Promises made cannot be undone.
When one's days pass in gloom,
Darker shades all rise and loom.
The Wanderer travels without a soul,
To consume beings and their all as a whole.
He goes about alone in solace.
Moving anywhere in time and space.

Those he burns live a blood-curdling dream.
Bow down before him, for he reigns supreme.
Wherever he points, people cower in dread.
For they know that they shall soon be dead.
Their souls shall be rent, before they do know.
Their very essence will leave them and go.
Only one who is truly sublime
Can salvage them before it is their time.

And there, on the hill alone he stands.
Having conquered waters and sands.
Unfazed he looks into the fiend's eyes.
They both collide as they utter war-cries.
This battle will ensue over hill and dale.
Through woods, through glades, through storm and hail.
Even though the Scourge generates in blight.
I believe we shall be redeemed from this plight.
--x--