Rally thy men ye olde star
Creep not that light unto my bed!
Shall not be smeared by folly, tar,
by truer beckons must be led.
In derelict, the house of prism
no longer can the gleam refract;
Lest harmony becomes it schism
the pit — the rays must oft retract.
Retreat is in a silhouette
When blazing marvels shadows glaze—
All prophecies themselves abet
As looming darkness turns their gaze.
Amused those ever flowing lies,
Control they gain, the masses bound:
Resolved a soul that falsifies!
If heaven lost, then hell is found.