A strange sort of dungeon.
I am accompanied by minotaurs, lizards, lissome insects.
Plenty of creatures to bludgeon.
Halls and labyrinths to intersect.

What I can’t figure, what I can’t understand
Is these torches. Lit bright in every hall.
Torches that must be lit and relit by hand.
But I haven’t seen any people at all.

I’m surrounded by puzzles of death and life.
And all I can wonder is how these torches light.

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Tradition will bow to me if I wish it.
Tradition will shatter if I wish it.
How many stories have there been
Of iconoclast children born to win?

I have a mother’s love when it’s convenient,
My father’s nonthreatening ineffectuality,
Oh, parents by turns firm and lenient,
Suitors defined by their nonentity.

Tradition will fall to me if I desire.
Tradition will creel and cry with fear.
I will feed the waiting chains to the fire.
No hapless fool will call me dear.

I do not need to change.
Not past a few kinder words to Mother.
I do not need to change.
To change is to die smothered.

Tradition is crushed beneath my feet.
I ride on my horse, the air is sweet.
Mother rides with me, my victory complete.
Take in a breath, let the story repeat.

I am become Death. Naturally.

I have found a thousand untended gardens
Teeming rich and wild.
I have cut them down.
I have severed lettuce heads.
Uprooted onions.
Ripped berries from their moorings.

I have found a thousand tender saplings.
I have felled them with my axe.
I have gathered the green logs in my arms
And carved rifle handles from their sap-smelling
Insides.

I have found the thousand exposed veins
Of a ore-filled mountain range.

I have slain a thousand villages.
I have filled my coat with pillage.
I have filled my pockets with crushed bird bones.
With scattered amber stones.