Dust

The tiny sprites lived within
   the grip of times torn of light and sin.
 Broken off at its metal wrist,
    natures reclaimed its twisted grip.
 Now hollowed out and on display,
 the tiny sprites calmly pray,
 pray that they'll be kings someday.

Rise

I can barely remember a thing,
before i slipped into this dream.
Rode to town on satan's scream,
hand in hand with you.