Belial, in the shadowed seam where night and rumor meet, You glide between the columns of a moonless, listening street. Your name a whispered gamble, signed upon the wind’s dark brow, A sovereign of the margins where broken promises bow.
You wear a crown of quiet tempers and velvet, fever-deep, A thinker of the empty rooms where weary seekers sleep. With syllables like knives of smoke, you carve a listening veil, And train the horn of midnight arcs to echo in the gale.
Belial, you barter silence for the secrets of the rain, Turning drought into parable, turning triumph into pain. The ledger of the fallen shines within your patient eyes, Where oaths are inked in shadows and every virtue dies.
Not a flame you blink to light the hollow hearted night, But a cool, clear chisel that pries the stale from wrong and right. Yet in your blackened grandeur, there lingers something wise: A mirror to our arrogance, a truth that ever tries.
So I bow not in surrender, but in a wary, wary part, To walk the edge of your counsel and listen with a cautious heart. Belial, keep your counsel close as rivers keep their banks, And teach us how to measure power without losing our own ranks.
