Death was ever my ally.
The threat of expiration more terrifying to those
who served than flattery and riches.
It drove me on.
I fall, a victim of misinformation,
(I cannot be defeated with this wand)
and hear nothing except the ironic echo of our spells.
All is silent.
I, whose very name could not be spoken,
have shrivelled into dusty
bones and dessicated flesh.
And then they roar.
There is a clamour around me
As clammy ghosts pummel
my puny self, thirsting for revenge.
Hungry for my capitulation.
Settling scores on my flayed form,
they hiss their hatred,
thinking I will be cowed.
These pale shades know me not.
I have died, and yet my name
will be the stuff of legend.
A horror story. A fright. A nightmare.
Thus have I gained immortality.
Below the sons and daughters of
the hungry ghosts celebrate,
with fanfares louder than any grief.
Poor fools.
For when the darkness swoops
in their hearts' recess
They will mourn, forever.
And I am eternal.