Lord Raven

Deep in the darkling woods,
Amongst the rotting crippled trees,
and murky billowing mist,
Lies a palace of extraordinary girth.

A castle as black as the eyes of death,
With towers of  purified oil black glass,
Glimmering a dartkly purple aura,
Floors of steel fire,
Pedastals of golems heads,
Wrought from living iron.

Deep within this chaotic horror,
Sits a gargantuan throne,
Created from carmelized bones,
Darkned flesh tinged red,
Wrapped in a cache of phoenix feathers.

Atop the throne,
Sits a figure bathed in deafening darkness,
Constantly moving in writhing spasms,
The darkness jumps into the air,
Spreading into a flock of ravens.

His eyes are red as blood,
Face veiled in dead shadows,
A golden cross hangs from his right ear,
Large jet black wings are folded,
Set behind his back.
Long silver hair blows across his face,
And mouth covered by his maroon coat of blood.

He commands the darkness,
From his eternal seat of pain,
As well as the ravens and crows,
Sending his minions out,
To trap mortal souls,
And feed upon their flesh,
For he is lord raven,
And all shall fear him.