On the Defiance of Celestial Tyranny

I'm bound in shackles, wrought by Fate;

  Entombed; a masquerade of life 

Where gloom is beauty, filled with hate, 

  I sculpt my monument of strife;

As savage Heaven does create,

  And Hell's sweet symphony does fife.



Unbar the door that guards the way,

  Beyond the fair folk's woodland grove

(Each year, upon the Eve of May)

  Into the halls of mighty Jove

Where fetters fester on display,

  That bind our souls to stars above.



If I could only storm that place,

  To rend the chains which guide my hands;

And from that task, return with grace,

  My feet again on earthly sands,

Then Fate's foul plans would I deface,

  Released from Destiny's demands. 



And living thus, by my own might

  Divorced from those prophetic skies;

The blackened gulf betwixt the light

  Would shield me from all divine eyes;

So liberated, could I fight

  The LORD and his angelic lies.



Prometheus, my patron saint,

  Against the Tyrant, you inspire,

Man to test Fortune's tight restraint;

  To bestow a greater gift than Fire;

Could I cleanse the world of this taint? 

  By who's fate might I thus aspire?



A way appears, 'neath lunar beams,

  I yet may slay this poltergeist;

Fulfill both fate, and my own dreams;

  Ne'er was a soul quite so enticed,

To devestate the Holy schemes,

  And crown himself the Antichrist!





36 lines in the manner of Lord Byron A.K.A George Gordon