• Battlefields are your favorite canvas
    A deep crimson paint adorns your brushes
    Soul husks appear under every brush pass
    Until stacked and burn'd under the rushes
    More than image does your canvas contain
    Cloying, sweet smell of decaying flies feast
    The cries and the screams of those still in pain
    Ones your crimson brush has not yet released
    Your art is so great it calls angels down
    Demons from Hellfire rise to admire
    Wolves, crows and vultures come prancing around
    Scavenging bodies not on the pyre
    Your art resides in history's pages
    New masters wield the brush through the ages