You say you mourn the puppet's death,
Yet these words infect his grave.
You two-faced Janus, upon his final breath!
No respect for the hell-bound slave.
Yes, a slave, I say, though you believe me not,
In his life no way your cruel conviction be appeased,
In his life, to frame him for the crime, you sought,
In his death known now as symptom, not disease.
Every demon upon this earth is made by mortal hands,
So that they may serve as our wrecked ship, a distant warning message.
Yet there lies the product of this same deceit, buried 'neath ashen sand,
Naught but a pawn in a higher game, made to play the savage.
Round and round, dancing under silent strings,
Unaware, like all mankind, of the affect of master's rule.
His time has come to soar on Valkyrie wings,
Now there he lies, coffin closed, the remnants of a tool.
