There was once a Prophet who was deeply misunderstood for no one could decipher her riddled, cryptic words.
Perpetually torn between lucidity and lunacy, who can tell when one affliction overcomes the other? She spoke in a language that is made up of pictures when others spoke in the language of the Silver Tongue.
So in a fit she burned the House of History before she tore down the Tower of Babel, to silence the whispers of the blighted ones.
Now all that is left of her name is Destruction when it was Reconstruction she was after; for every word uttered by her painted lips felt like the kiss of a poisoned blade.
To save herself, she turned to dust; hoping to be freed from her twisted, crippling fate….
I will name her Kirell;
Harmless, lonely Kirell;
Bound forever in the spaces between time;
But I will set her free the way I’ve set you free;
And I will bid her fly far, far away from me.
Kirell… Kirell… you are almost there;
And when your bindings finally come undone;
Forget not the one who cut the rope;
Grant me the wish that I may turn to diamond dust;
That I may roam the earth on wings of a maiden dove.
She said to me, “Go ride on the trail of a dying star;
Go find asylum from my stinging hate;
That I may not touch you with my rusty blade;
That I may fade into the depths where my shadows lie;
That I may find some peace when I finally say good-bye.” KIRELL
The beast was here all along…