The Spectre

Friday, August 25, 2006

A blessing on your eyes, a stillness from the pain
All will be forgiven with the comming of the rain
The shallow pool of yesterday, soon it will be full
The Spectre in the corner is pearched upon a stool

The tale told once, one quiet night so very long ago
The truth of kings, lost not through time, lay covered up with snow
A cry for help, a need unmet has called Him to this place
Still huddled in the corner, the Spectre with no face

He was sent to hold you captive,or perhaps to gaurd your life
In one hand there's an olive branch, the other holds a knife
Once summoned by the ancients, through motives that were clear
Fade more obscure, with less import, with every passing year

As tears form in his reddened eyes, the Witness in your room
A cross between salvation and all impending doom
And though you should not fear Him, it just might be the case
For I am that silent image, the Spectre with no face