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Carach Angren
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The Shining Was A Portent Of Gloom
A black shape sits on deck in a red glistening puddle*
Sobbing and shaking, curled up in a huddle.
The shape of a man amidst silence and slaughter,
Clothes torn and drenched in blood and salt water.
'Hist fortune to dust, his fortune to dust!
His triumph in vain, his triump in vain!
Riches to ashes! His tears lost in rain!'
A ship made of mist like quicksilver thread.
This skeleton vessel sings songs for the dead.
To take a deep breath and set his mind back in motion,
He stumbles upright and fumbles to the prow.
His eyes now closed to hear his dead ocean,
He feel the world has altered somehow.
Deafening silence, the ocean seems gone.
Hardly a whispere nor notes of wind song.
'Hist fortune to dust, his fortune to dust!
His triumph in vain, his triump in vain!
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Riches to ashes! His tears lost in rain!'
In a final attempt to end this bitter roam,
He looks a the stars with their comforting glare.
But the lights above that once guided him home,
Scattered and shattered, are no longer there.
Now dawning upon him loke rays of the sun,
His state and his fate cannot undone.
The captain now trapped on this skeleton vessel,
Adrift on the voide in a black floating castle.
Chained to a twilight and bound to his boat,
Swearing his vengeance on the other afloat.
Light at the edn that have the world in their grip.
He shall have his conquest
As death came through a phantom ship!
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