The Evarun Prophecy

One who was but could not be
One who could not be but was.

One to teach and One to save
The mark of the Dragon upon him.

Borne of cradle borne of grave
Chosen from forgotten blood

Borne for us to die for us
For only the fallen may rise.

One to prepare the way
Until the desert he will wait.

One to walk alone
He will raise twelve to show the way.

Neither spear nor shaft shall harm him
His symbol shall be his passage.

Martyred by the Dragons Veil
The Dragon’s oath fulfilled.

Twelve to share the Gift
Twelve who will forget

Herald the Dragons return
As the Fallen they will rise

To bring to fell the Shadowed Pale
Until the Giver does return

Lament the ones who will forget
The Dragon that waits within.

The Dragon’s Return

When the day of the dragon had come
All of the souls were seized with envy

At the price that had been paid by Some
As a torch lit a fire within them

To spread the words that they had heard
Rejoicing they were already dead

Asleep in their beds
Their vanity fed

The Dragon’s Sleep

Close your eyes behind the veil
Of the truth you cannot tell

Go to sleep, go to sleep
In the warmth of the dragons ire.

Hundred Years

A hundred years have passed
since we were Awoken

A hundred years have passed
since the Wyrm was driven away

A hundred years have passed since we
remembered why it was that we were saved.

Murder of the Fallen Ones

They say that the murder of the Fallen Ones
happened quickly and without warning.

But there was warning enough and it began
long ago,

long before the breath ceased to come from
their lips.

Fallen Leaves

I love the smell of fallen leaves.
A musty ochre on winters’ eve.
Bits of poetry and lore put together as I developed the world and history of the Pale, the world
of the Prophecy of the Evarun. Some are directly in the story and some are not. The Evarun
Prophecy is central to the story. The one entitled Sanseveria was a poem I wrote in High
School which later became lyrics for a song of the same name for the band I used to be in
called The Coma Club.


At the edge of Sanseveria
No life exists.

Stark Mountains grope upwards
towards a deserted skyline.

A wasteland
Only the devil could call home.

A gray chair
Sentinel of a lost civilization.

Empty eyes
View a theatrical tragedy.

Smirking a mirthless cajole
Wistful dreaming, painful desperation.

Painful desperation.

And all the while I pray were willing
to break down all those walls

And when it comes to indecision
You know we'll surely fall

And when the tentacles of oppression
try to pull you down

And when the maw beneath the earth
it tries to suck you down

Will you speak your mind?