The hunting bat shadow is come over us It swallows our hopes and names them all dust and beneath it's shade we've been splayed down to devour and degrade and be pitted as iron by rust It blasts through the walls, makes dust of them all and nothing can silence its clarion call it is shame, it is blame, black blanket and blade called to conquer our minds and watch us both fall It has been so ever since we clashed our bones and shared our blood upon the alabaster stones Amid our moans and our wails, somehow sundered the veil that held the black shadow in stone. And though it flew so fast we could feel it flit past through the air over our cold, rocky bed and we felt its desire to silence our fire and rend us and leave us for dead. With wings on the wind, it slithered and sent us to dejection, despair, and dismay and still it pursued even as we passed through the mornings and into the days And though it eat the light, I will stand and will fight and confront its black-shrouded claws although in the end only one of us will remain to see the dawn.

The Valley of the Spill, where mad gods with chemical appetites war and vie to drink their fill, where a thousand hungry vagrant ghosts dust the streets and swarm the coasts hawk winds scour the baked hills and landslides are bleached white with skeletons, yet another atrocity of the old gods. Open to us, Residents, and be filled with the Taint, they cry The mad gods released parasitic ghouls to suck the cities, the ghouls themselves to be harvested at a later date The churches screamed and abandoned ship since charity influenza in faith buried the series of bishops, their paragon always disintegrating, content to be another breakfast for the mad gods. I won't stand still for any more of this hocus-pocus. I bring the lance to spoil the aggregate and suck the poison. Impossibility is a technicality; stand out of my way. Well, here's a yearning, here's a burning here's blood churning like a storm A poet's eye with the will to die since the day that he was born He weighs all truths and finds them wanting, defines his own sin His hands may make him a killer, but his heart makes him is own man. Acropolis, apocalypse, a taste of this upon the lips Your hands made you a killer and your heart will never have its wish so shut your lips, let fall the chips you know it has to end like this. But then here's a hand, here's a face here's a gleaming glimpse of grace Why love the bomb when seas are calm when the storm is held in her embrace? What is the meaning, are you just dreaming, do you tilt at gods because you can? Your hands made you a killer, but your heart makes you her man. Down the well, into hell an appropriate weapon will spell the final knell crack the bell as roaring clouds fell cities like saplings This is insane. I have another cigarette. A slow countdown on the keys; it is almost time. Though the sands turn glass and reflect the past, you needn't carry it on your back Here's a truth you won't find alone: you needn't turn your heart to stone If you won't turn back, you know I won't make you If you don't turn back, you know it will break you If you just turn back, you know I will take you If your bones burn black, I cannot replace you A poet's eye with the will to die is allowed to shed a tear to cry Your hands once made you a killer, but your heart still can have its wish Just shut your lips, receive my kiss, it doesn't have to end like this