Part III: The Psychology Of Demons And The Bitterness Of Winter

My Demons have fled
For they did not know that which I am.
My angel has arrived weeping
For she doesn't yet know who she is.
Her pale face now wet,
And smitten by Sorrow's jealousy.

As Frost blesses the Earth with a winter's kiss
The sun is forever lost to the wisdom of the stars.
The woodlands and the mountains whisper
Their secrets to those who wander in their midst.

Evergreen branches struggle to embrace one another,
Save one that has shed its needles as bitter tears,
Piercing the laughing cloak of snow underneath.
Perhaps some are destined to stand alone
In strength of cold solitude.

Sadness? It is a word too freely flung about
From the ignorant mouths of those who do not know
What it is like to be haunted by a freezing, torturous gale,
And to be forced to hold the withered hand of eternal pain.
Where Nothing symbolizes Anything...

My demons have fled for they did not know that which I am.

I am this and nothing more
I am Black Death, I am crimson hate
I am Mary and the wicked Whore
Enthroned on abyssic stormclouds in burning skies...
I am this and something more
I am the rape of winter, I am the crush of ice
I am fear incarnate, the stygian cold you abhor
Engraved on Olympian stone in kingly majesty...
I am this and so much more.

My angel has arrived and she will soon learn who she is.