Ant Smith


Manna Maya

A wasteland, a deadland, of sand and stone

There stands an old wizard, both cold and alone.

He surveys they ground, and sees dust settled

on corpses of mortals who meddled.

The eighth day saw our destruction

as piles of bodies formed, ghastly constructions.

He turns his mind back to great events,

that marked the fall,

that marked the time,

the marked the end of

all these men.

The magic of the spirit magi’s spells,

it beats within our voids

it beats within our shells.

Encapsulate our heaven

in a sea of hells.

Divine! Creations are much enjoyed.

But mind’s creations are,

much employed.

Lie down you’re dead.

I have the power over all I behold

withered earth gods, that now I control.

What is this power we claim to hold ?

Control, controller, control, controlled.

The eye of the wyrm, the word of death.

The power to turn, stone to flesh.

The sands of time, the tolling bells.

Vision of heaven, creation of hell.

Whilst idols idle in isolation

They feel the freeze of hells creation.

The wizard passes now along new tracks,

for he has seen us grow

from heaven

from heaven

from heaven to inferno.

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