The Udd

Jonathon Earl Bowser's Fire City

The Udd, Seethes.
Not believed.

It's Rising Red, yet,
reaches down with grappling fingers,
into the under ground,
 for the Umbra's Head.

The Umbra's Crown.

The Umbra, The Dark Lord, 
just below, hears the chanting,
  swells and grows.

Sitting On his Onyx throne,
snakes with forked tongues
call this home.
Griffons stand on either side.
 Waiting, watching, satisfied.
Drooling, hungry, The Umbra's eyes,
yellow slits, the soul of sly.
Mouth a smirk, sneers, he snarls.
Coughs thunder heaving, 
breath that gnarls.

Hungry bellied, pushes through
crimson tides, up, up and through.

Black ashen, smoke rings, rising to
Belching want, He's ascending too.

Fire Burns, It's Penetration.
The Beast, The Dark Lord, conflagration.

Demons dance, their pitch forks raised
amidst the sullied smoky haze.
 
Ogres, Trolls,Parade and Prance.
He-be, Ge-bes, rail and rant.

Griffins, Goblins, Banshees moan,
unsanctity is touched and sown.

The Umbra hears the hew and cry.

He licks fingers, how's and whys.

Looking up at blood red skies.
Jagged flames flicking tongues on high 
unleashing the wicked's moans and cries. 

Rumbling, grumbling the city, groans.

 Ummy, Umbling! The Umbra's home.

 The Udd here on the scissors edge
where the lost, the fallen the undead, 
cavot and chant and stir their pot.
Boiling, broiling, roiling, hot.
 Pressures building in its cauldron
streams of Lava
churning, see the flow.
Hissing, spitting snakes.
Grumbling, Ummy, Umbling
from a darkness far below.

Venom, spewed like vomit 
ripping across steaming,
 crimson, embers.
Leaving, Seething. 
Lava bubbling, life recoiling in it's Lakes.
Heaving spurts of utter in its wake.
No forgiveness, just forsake.

 Blown and tossed in skies of onyx,
 choked in smoke,
that is wrought with waste.
   Whispers and their anguished screams.
Heard to spitter, sputter,
spew along its seams,
in the coffin called the mind,
forgiveness not to find.

Insane.

Salvation has no name.

Save for God and nothing in between.
 Condemned there is no end.

Demons Dance In Time.
A nightmare's dream gone blind.

Rising, Pain it burns.
 Sweating, a fountain.
Broth wrought of this Seething, 
searing flesh is heard to beg
and give up its last breath.

Explosions in the mind,
eruptions, tumultuous you find, 
fevered, frantic, pitching, witching
retching, vexing.

Haunts are these.
The Umbra very pleased.

Brow sweats salty, trickling, rippling down,
rivers of misgivings make no sound.
 Yet, spill upon this unhallowed ground.

Screams and Screamers yet, to be
shrieking out in agony 
through walls of flames,
tortured souls without names.

Hot yet, caked in ice, no compassion,
no pain will ever pay the price,
no agony suffice.

Demons come and go here slipping, sliding,
slick and sleek with hiding.
Cackling within the crackling flames
Rejoicing none the same.
In flares and fires so deep,
the bowels down below
 where the underbelly sleeps,
is drenched in burning coals aglow,
embers the Umbra 
only keeps and knows.

Existing there, within the frozen darkness 
just below "The Udd,"
 beyond this crimson red.
Where the great Umbra lays his head.
Dark Lord of the Un dead.

Burn, Burn, unholy urns, salivating,
He returns. He comes, he comes.
Thunder resounds underground.

Ascending through the center
through the flames to walk, to take,
he claims, his title Prince of Darkness Pain.

The wicked know his name!

Beware! The Umbra in his Udd
Un holiness reigns here
in dank and dark despair.
Get ye back, I plead, recede,
before he sees, he sees!
The Umbra comes for thee
Ney, too late, too late
Thou shalt never get ye free!

By
Lady LaMythica
Linda A. Copp

October 9, 1999

By Lady LaMythica, Linda A. Copp © All rights reserved World Wide
including but not limited to 1970-2015

The Composition you are listening to is Tragic Play by Patrick Wolf
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Background graphic is the artwork of Keith Parkinson click on his name to visit this website which contains his work and other fantastic fantasy ART!