The ghostword loomed behind nature.
Like dust of the atmosphere,
My obligations are undarkened,
I span the toolshed providing Lion the fundamental gear,
When I’m in there I teach them despair.
Arizel takes me away from Arindhara to the forest,
Her icy kiss sustained on my lips,
We phantom the dying skies.
Vasitven sold the river of life,
The Lion went to the Toolshed.
The Lion was a traitor of the forest
Toiling in the toolshed when he sells his soul,
I give him a new Ghostword to behold.
They who are alive there,
Their smells decompose behind his spine.
These sufferings I beset the toolshed,
Are not judged by the worker’s mistakes
But by how they face dementia,
When on them Ghostwords befell.
The army of Arizel is always ahead
My power surges in their abodes
Bloodshed they keep in control.
I rip the brains of the black animals
And barrage them with ghostwords.
Who don’t think I’ am real are Arindharans.
When I want to play nostalgia
Springing from the light
Arizel catches Shrusim on the staircase,
And we enjoy the never-ending Frey.