Bruid Lennox:
The Dark’s Grip On My Mind

Exeunt me, you foul spirits, whom do feed on my brittle consciousness. Oh, tales and signs, that such gentle lips of a mother did preach, appear now only too true to have been so softly nested in my ear by the same lips that were hers, of all others.

I did drink up such warnings.

Frighten and harden myself with them I did also do. And still, my head is but a dying storm, stirred by fairies, teasing my mind’s eye with the blackened serpents of mortality…

Trickery they do play, mocking my senses, sending each to battle another, trampling all reason and reality with spiked recklessness to aid in this cruel deception.

A fool they do think they make of me!

I should not stand this, and so I will choose to ignore it. To bury it in my real sand and Earth where it may never rise to torment me again.

“Slàn leat, true light” would not be so much as whimpered from my jaws that must howl, bark and growl. Not so long as I breathe the Scottish air of this land I call home.

Had my heated soul not been so concussed, I would know whereupon I lay. My paws reject my weight, beaching me here beneath this frozen rock. Cold, is my disturbed gut, and so my person. Raise my cranium to this “Lupus” and cry for my brethren: I would I couldst.

I am grounded, muted… And bloody.
Yet I try to stand again.