by Nick Gisburne
A prophet with the prescience to know
Regrets that I will not amount to much
The gods, in their displeasure, will bestow
A torment, everlasting, with a touch
If this is what my future is to be
Then let their shades, their servants, find my face
They cannot strike a soul they do not see
Their senses will betray them in this place
Beyond the reach of any god or ghost
I set a deadly trap of my design
And, as it claims the last of them, I boast
The heavens, once their home, are truly mine
But this is what the prophecy had shown
My torment: an eternity, alone
