The Tempest

My mother becomes death; my father, war.
My sisters are the furies ranged behind me and before.
Now, none comes to defend me when the iron talons rend me;
none will send me satisfaction or surcease.

I rent the veil and saw with harrowed eyes
the holiest of holies is the hollowest of lies.
No prophet yet has spoken whose word has not been broken,
and the token of my faith provides no peace.

The sky has split and swallowed up the sun,
and shadows ate the dawning day before it had begun.
Now clouds like bloody spatters dot a sky rent into tatters;
nothing matters here, beyond the death of all.

What hope have I, who watched my father leave,
who saw my mother murdered and yet could not feel to grieve?
The lot of life is dying, nor can all my toil and trying
set me flying free from foul perdition's call.

The light that burns around me is my own;
the fire of apocalypse becomes my flesh and bone.
If my fate must be perdition, then let hell be my ambition,
and my mission that I will not fall alone,