The Psyker

In a cold dark room,
There is only war.

Not the carnage
Of physical slaughter.

More of a... battle of wills.
Forever struggling with
A warped world of demons and chaos...

The rooms are black.
Holy scriptures on thin cut paper...
Fluttering slowly with the screams of anguish,
these \'curs\'ed\' beings let go.

The options:
To prevail, or lie in a wake of destruction.
Your own thoughts seeping away like oil through water.

The become one with the miasma of the warp...
But does their pain matter?

Does it phase the ones who cause it?

Nay...

Why would they worry,
When a servant is being made?

A servant of Khorne
A servant of Tzeentch
A servant of Slannesh...
Even of Nurgle the decaying....

Only the Warp decides the fate
Of those so damned to become a psyker.

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**Notes. This is a Warhammer 40K based poem. A psyker is a shunned being, being trained or executed as the Imperium or Emperor sees fit.

Nurgle, Khorne, Tzeentch, Slannesh. All are gods of the Warp, and Chaos. Usually they corrupt the psykers and such.

Pretty much, not all of it\'s accurate, but look it up on wiki^.^