With our dark matron's ire having burned all ahead,
The fire loses innocents the chance to hide.
We're desiccated as the rain starts to relent,
With pelts of lambs serving as our disguise.

We stalk among the unknowing,
those who mourn the loss of what they hold dear.
We take advantage of the moment
and prey upon misdirected fear.

The spectacle of evangelistic hatred
becomes the last experience of every soul.
With sacrifice, they will come to know our maker
and leave with the memory of a winter so cold.

The frost subdues the fetid rot of my queen's creations,
Who venture on as we consume the spoils.
For the the first time, I sense a disassociation
between my desire and my choice.

My mind protests the feast, yet I can't help but eat.
I cannot still my teeth, nor challenge my instinct
for fear of death should I now challenge my queen.

I lose control as, by their blood, I am sustained,
its blessing granted by our queen to invigorate.
I fear that my thirst is something that I'll never sate
As their corpses are exhausted of the nectar left to claim.


The desperation sets in as the flesh is ripped away
and our starvation yet persists.
Frantically, toward the morning star we race,
leaving behind a solemn rift.

For reasons I don't know, I see the illusion
of long-dead stars which illuminate our path.
I recall my longing for the light of the moon,
sun, and all the stars long since collapsed.

Trapped within a feral god's dream,
guided by distant memory,
I have to reason to hope, it seems,
for salvation for yourself or me.

We stalked by the unknown,
those who collect the cost of what we hold dear.
We taken advantage of in the moment
and preyed upon with misdirection and fear.

Onward, we writhe in our sea of seditious fear;
a tidal wave of treachery cultivated,
cast over shores of achievements pursued for years,
washing away their history's conservation.

Their deaths would not suffice,
we'll destroy, too, their writ.
We hope only to make their lives
as if they were never lived.