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Ixtal Is He Who
Ixtal Is He Who
Ixtal is He who grins ominously.
He who controls anonymously.
He who indulges in external misery,
How he does it, a mystery.
Ixtal is He who seeks pleasure in suffering.
He who finds simple happiness restricting.
He who operates invisible strings,
Ridding victims of their wings.
Ixtal is He who only grins with control.
He who has possessions of more than one soul.
He who strips his victims of consciousness,
Somehow his actions meet no consequence.
Ixtal is He who stands taller than others.
He who thrives on guilt of another’s.
He who brilliantly hypnotizes,
As always, no reprimanding arises.
Ixtal is He who views others lowly.
He who sees everyone as unholy.
He who declares himself the rightful ruler,
The one that has the right to the universe’s future.
Ixtal is He who puppets the unassuming inferior.
He who inclines them towards his motives ulterior.
He who dances them about, swaying lifelessly.
As he controls them like water, a tideless sea.
Ixtal is He whose fingers decide fate of many.
He who doesn’t do it for a penny.
He who finds monetary value useless,
Much better seeing his victim’s glass face.
Ixtal is He who dolls up wingless victims.
He who eyes their monotonous systems.
He who toys as he wishes with destiny,
Mirthfully plunders them of their identity.
Ixtal is He who fidgets with the string of mind.
He who’ll never let his victims unwind.
He who delights in screams and cries,
Waltzing them on his stage of lies.
Ixtal is He who revels within his wicked game,
He who exploits souls perfectly in a picture-frame.
He who watches them from afar writhing painfully.
But alas, Ixtal is He who sinfully sways eternally.
