He tends to thrive on the small delusions,
On tiny play-days of the third dimension,
Harking unto the fourth, where grass is greener,
Lost within his devilish desires;

With hope, as a speck, inside the dark,
And lust; dancing, on thoughts of blood,
Filling staunch craniums, with the blackest of smokes,
While nature, whispers, the demise of souls;
 

And manifests, upon, the unleashed multiverse,
Vast empires, of the rulers of Celestia,
And slumbers, upon the eerie moonbeam,
The dark desires, of wrath unshackled;
 

His world, the small third, fuelled with thirst,
Of plights and blithe of tender, living souls,
His dance of joy, amid the calling doom,
Lost, in the ravages of time.