Rage;
From it comes hate,
From hate comes war,
The war of the worlds as it were.
Where millions of souls are cast
Into ther own dark crypts.
These tombs that spew hot ash and
Melt the flesh
Becon to them with their sinister songs
Filled with dispair and torment.
Torment inflicted by your own demons,
Your own devils,
This cruel twist of ironic horror.
To be remembered not as memories,
But as dreams.... nightmares of the gods.
Your blood it smells,
Your soul it seeks,
Only this vast and foerlorn warning to guide you.
Run
That is all,
Run
To the Four Winds,
To the Isle of Lost Time.
But you will fall and
You will perish.
All die, no execptions, no favorites.
There are no heros,
There are no saviors.
Only deaths will,
Deaths sword,
And your
Blood. |
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