Fair Eryael

It is said that the Pain Lord is not mortal, or is so different from most mortals as to make his lifespan indistinguishable from immortality. In such a long life, there is little doubt that his tortured yet magnetic nature has drawn the eyes and inspiration of poets and songsmiths the world wide. This is one such poem, undated and untitled.

Fair Eryael, your twisted lips are damned to haunt my dreams
where light is darkness and the dark is never what it seems.
If I could bring you back to me with sacrifice or prayer,
I would, full-knowing I could not but lay my heart-strings bare.

Just for your touch, I feel a hunger like a babe's, newborn,
no matter how my mind recoils, or how my senses warn.
Would that I were Tanager, with rose to recollect!
Instead, my mind's eye brims with thoughts of your hand on my neck.

When marking me, was it for Sorrow, or mere pleasure thine?
This question comes to me, unhindered by sense-dead'ning wine.
Its verity is haunting, and I--disallowed escape—
must pause, to recollect love that makes more of simple rape.

Can worship ever be made pure, with such foundations base?
Will I be ever struck with mem'ries of your leering face?,
That cruel unworthy smile of yours is branded in my soul,
and where my loving heart resided, now is left a hole.

This mark upon my neck is His, but it was made by you,
and deep inside I doubt that with it, I can be made true.
Yet indecision's ag'ny and what's wrought of loving pain
are my gifts to Mularos--So your mark, love, shall remain.