Star Poem by Thomas Kane

Shall the meek inherit a world lost in its dismay
It is as so written so it mote wither away
lead not the tempest into the gloomy overcast future
As the man fall to the ground the word is sure to be found
Many an eye crumble by plank or rod as the fake inflates the proud
A world founded and fell with the beast on his constant prowl
I say dear old wizard of old can you cast a crown upon my head
Fowl forms of a spell you try and whip up as whom cast you down
Illuminate your own crowd oh wise one as the epitome mist
An order fumigates hell bound abyss chained with the final kiss