09 - The Soulless World

progressive rock, avant-garde, Middle Eastern influences

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Khensu sees the soulless walk, their weightless steps abound,
The joy that once defined mankind now lost, nowhere to be found.
So he watches, his burden grows, each lost soul trapped within,
A weight he bears, a price he paid, for one immortal sin.

The ancient tomes unveil the truth: the world holds finite souls.
Each birth draws from the slumping pool, none at the controls.
Through lives reborn, the count runs thin, each death a vanished trace,
And now, the world lies on the brink—a hollow, soulless space.

"I've done this" Khensu whispers, his voice a broken plea,
"To save myself, I have condemned what life was meant to be.
My chancellor, take these reigns from me; my hands can hold no more,
I’ll seek the answer, locked away, behind the scholar’s door.”

The library doors groan shut behind, the world fades into gloom,
Where shadows stretch like jagged claws across the dusty room.
The truth he finds is cold and callous, a law carved deep in stone:
Save his, a soul once bound, cannot be freed; its vessel stands alone.

His voice grows sharp, his anger burns: "You gods who forged this cage,
Who gave us laws, who shaped our fates, and left in nameless rage—
Come forth! Undo this cursed shell, or cast me to the flame,
Or I will tear your heavens down and rise to stake my claim!"

The skies reply with stillness vast, the stars unyielding glow.
No hand descends, no voice replies; the gods have let him go.
His soul, a pyre of boundless grief, ignites in the monarch.
"If gods have fled, then I alone must light this endless dark."

His quill begins its solemn task, each stroke a new design,
To weave the world beyond its bounds, his workings now malign.
The spell takes shape, become divine or force its hand, his purpose now revealed:
To craft the godspell, transcend this form, until his curse is healed.

2112/7500

A thousand years have marked their toll, the curse now widely spread, What once began with lifeless beasts now roams where humans tread. Their eyes are hollow, their hearts are stone, no empathy can be seen, For making bread or spilling blood holds equal weight, their lives obscene. Khensu sees the soulless walk, their weightless steps abound, The joy that once defined mankind now lost, nowhere to be found. So he watches, his burden grows, each lost soul trapped within, A weight he bears, a price he paid, for one immortal sin. The ancient tomes unveil the truth: the world holds finite souls. Each birth draws from the slumping pool, none at the controls. Through lives reborn, the count runs thin, each death a vanished trace, And now, the world lies on the brink—a hollow, soulless space. "I've done this" Khensu whispers, his voice a broken plea, "To save myself, I have condemned what life was meant to be. My chancellor, take these reigns from me; my hands can hold no more, I’ll seek the answer, locked away, behind the scholar’s door.” The library doors groan shut behind, the world fades into gloom, Where shadows stretch like jagged claws across the dusty room. The truth he finds is cold and callous, a law carved deep in stone: Save his, a soul once bound, cannot be freed; its vessel stands alone. His voice grows sharp, his anger burns: "You gods who forged this cage, Who gave us laws, who shaped our fates, and left in nameless rage— Come forth! Undo this cursed shell, or cast me to the flame, Or I will tear your heavens down and rise to stake my claim!" The skies reply with stillness vast, the stars unyielding glow. No hand descends, no voice replies; the gods have let him go. His soul, a pyre of boundless grief, ignites in the monarch. "If gods have fled, then I alone must light this endless dark." His quill begins its solemn task, each stroke a new design, To weave the world beyond its bounds, his workings now malign. The spell takes shape, become divine or force its hand, his purpose now revealed: To craft the godspell, transcend this form, until his curse is healed.

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