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A slow intel drips

Propping up the callous machine

When the peddlers come singing

You believe half/have come clean

And the calling card of fate

Has split a binary to binary

Ancient icons

Risked against obscene archons

To bask in the glory of bloodied history

Sons and Daughters –

I drink from the ichor brewed tea

Come bear our rotten fruit

Lamentations long silenced

Now return in curdled blood

The sour scent of abuse

Thinly veiled in pillars of mud

From which the last vestige

Of human life begins to bud

Drag a line around the glyph

Drag a line around the glyph

Heed. It glows.

This is our chance

Feast upon happenstance

Ritualistic torturous trance

This is our victory

Bathed in brutality

Yeah, this is our chance

This is our chance

Ritualistic deadly dance

And it glows

And it grows

Rendering

I hear the call

I want (to) rejoice

I hear the call

Beckoning winds of change

Like a knell

I know…of death