The Axeman

In his youth he began.
Only a child when he first wielded
His mighty axe.

He became better
He grew older
His fingers worked faster

Always learning,
He craved knowledge.
Always trying to be better.

He joined a Prince of Darkness
And continued his journey to the top
To become one of the greatest.

But this journey was cut short;
By the fires of Hell itself.
He was struck down.

The hero fell,
But his legacy lives on.
Others follow his path,
But no one could ever replace him.

The Nightmare
After a painting by Henry Fuseli


A shriek in the night
The incubus adds another victim
To his long, long list.

On a black steed he rides
Through the darkness
Into the town
Where his next victim awaits

But wait,
What’s this?
As he sneaks into another young girl’s room,
He is suddenly stopped.

The priest appears,
Crucifix in hand.
And drenches the demon
With blessed water

The incubus screams in pain
As his body begins to deteriorate
He is sent back to Hell
For now…

The Art of War

Red and black.
Blood runs over
Scorched earth.

The sky turns grey,
As smoke rises
From burning corpses.

The artists paint.
The land is the canvas.
Their guns the brushes.

The second horsmen rides;
In his wake are death and destruction
As his steed tramples the earth.

In the distance,
A sudden flash of light.
Instantly, the world turns bright orange.

As the light fades,
Nothing is left standing,
Except for the sins of many.

The sky darkens.
The sun no longer shines
On this barren wasteland.

On the wind,
There are whispers
From the fallen.

The painting is complete...