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Fog, on the coldest night

Creeps the whispers, the thickest moldy breath

Up against all deafened ears, secrets flickered, sharp as flames

It is old, it is unknown

Touching the frosted stone, like a serpent's husk

A cancerous, malevolent, parasitic, soul disease

Under salted waves, the greying sky

Demand a service in wrath

By the mountains high temples rusting

And the markings of claws

Pointing to fires above

From the deep beyond sanity

The ancient race

Claws and fingers reach

Seeping out of the conscious

The precursor to madness

Creaking open the door

It rears its horns

It's calling out

Black grit entered the mouth and eyes and ears, worked its way between his skull

Trying to make him a part of the ocean, just like the dead things

They saw darkness, felt unbearable presence in the icy cold of unknown deaths

Do you see it?

From its resting place, it is the night, the terror and desire

Touch-less and looming it borrows, deep inside of all minds, open the void

Expand the evil, expand the hate , and in its frailty

In frozen, unknown horror, boundless lunacy

Of aeons

Death

It is night, it is unearthed, and from the seas and from the crypts

On the winds, blowing madness through the mirror, of aeons