The house of Sloth is burning down,
A man impaled, in a burning town.
He sighs and stands, though bones are broke,
A waking sleep, a weary bloke.
He walks from fire to sterile light,
A surgeon's fear, a waking fright.
In dreams, he's chained, an eagle's feast,
A goddess's wrath, from West to East.
He finds a girl with eyes of blue,
Who sees the void he's built anew.
A pot of ash, a sacred trust,
Now turned to dust, and left to rust.
A voice that speaks of oaths and thrones,
In dry, dead, and dusty tones.
A choice is given, stark and real,
To face the void, or simply heal.
She chooses chaos, fire, and dread,
The living words her mother said.
For in the void, a spark can grow,
But only if you will it so.
So Sloth and Spark now make their start,
To mend a phoenix's broken heart.
The hassle's chosen, not bestowed,
A heavy, but a hopeful, load