Will And Death

*Clock Sound*

Will: The suited vulture within thy hidden hooded figure pounds, for in this round I fear what cannot be found. For thou searches for innocent souls like I.

Death: Thou art a villain. Thou remorse claims over thine actions. Thou has spoken without thy token. With mind acceptable surely shall be broken. Thy token and taken for a most lamentable day. Thou know not of wretched mortals, this portal shall be the norm for all eternity.

Will: If thou leads me to a false paradise, as they say, to a fools pair of eyes. Then surely and truly a lamentable day be true.

Death: Thou art a man? Thee have led thyself to this most unworthy fate. In fear thou chooses to ignore one’s own truth.

Will: The thousand cravens have fled from thine hand. Therefore thou has led I to this most unworthy end. My dear friend thou has left the hope calls. For the longing that has been blossomed upon this night door if mind up for the taking… you shall be forever broken.

Death: The infectious turmoil thou has comest has made… hell-hated… thy shall be forever the horn beast that dwells within. Ye be shall forever longing.

Will: A full blown blow from the trumpet which thou carriest. As we fall into these bitter arms. Life is the fools game. The poor wretched repositions, care to make a contribution? To ye poor souls mumbling the thousand worded mouth of thine vipers tongue. Amen! So shall be the one that falls and bends from this choir’s play.

Death: So shall be it, forever longing shall be the word most forgotten. Thou art villainous young wanderer for ye have made a fools dream. Thou shall fall into my cold trance for thy shall be in me eternal embrace. For thou shall be cold as clay.

Will: Thou speaks of Prophets! Ye have a abandoned me… ye has forgotten me…ye has led me to a Goddess! Suppress me not, for ye has led me to the midnight dreams. Tell me foul spirit, what fools paradise has thou in store?

Death: The paradise of one’s own black heart… to the corridor least walked. For this young prophet, is the hell ye has made from thine tainted heart. The holy conquest which thou summons is something stained with grief. Such as made thou prophet a most unworthy of an closing.

Will: To this steady sleep we have made, for I am no longer the prophet, but the dear slave. To the thousand blades, sleep no more! For now I shall murder in sleep! Take my bloodily daggers oh Great Spirit! Let me rest, forever peaceful which can only be made from an eternal slumber.

Both: Thou has made a grave in this eternal slumber.

*Clock Sound*