Wrought of iron, his helmet gleamed -
gilded grates which are seldom seen -
many millenia he's beheld the screams
of those unworthy, most are selfish fiends
whose self esteem turned to self obsession -
the spell of greed for which they held their weapons
and enveloped their dreams in a hell without exit.
They'd moan and plead but didn't know he'd seen -
a whole life passing in a moment's leave for when he lowers the screen
produced is a glowing beam, a golden stream that pierces souls with ease
and if the soul is clean its light is shone indeed, a pure reflection of their hopes and dreams.
This moment, something strolls in, mean, brutish,
now he stands 'neath the arches in these lands of the departed.
Screaming, angrily marches "Fuck off, you can't handle me, martian!"
Gestures with a fist and a sign from the gang which he hearkened
"Let me through, man, or damnit, we sparkin'!"
The Keeper of Gates simply stands and keeps guarding,
not even a flinch as a fist glances his armor
"Ye shall be judged
lest ye have in ye darkness."
Only madder, he charges.
The Keeper slowly lifts his hand to his casque grasping its cartridge
utters a word in the language of Tartarus - "Bezilus"
and as he chants it he lets it loose
light released from the heavens above
redirected through the helmet, as intense as the sun
sights the mere mortal so defenseless and dumb
to strike at the Keeper, his sentence was sung
igniting instantly, he screams and desperate runs
blinded, damage to his eyes had already been done
in seconds his entire body aflame
and seconds more all but ashes; he, so rotten, profane
adrift in the wind and forgotten, in vain.