Rise From The Skulls Of Madness

The haunting vision of death and doom.

An odd shade of murk swathing,
The field of foul stench and death, 
As the spills of blood are bathing,
The lorn holms with a fiery breath.

The swift sword of sheer might,
Slaying blive those wretch'd foes,
Who fall into the fire of the light, 
In burnt ashes of hands and toes.

Dread ye the undertaker now, 
Who cometh for doom'd souls,
Along rotten bones near a brow,
That dwine at once in the coals.

Nay, shall whims of death sway,
From this world of feckless hope,
The manifold children dead that lay, 
As they cliv'd onto a slippery slope. 

Hear wails of weary mothers,
Who mourn the loss of fathers,
Dying with the bodies of brothers,
In the tears of bereft daughters.

Behold the truth behind a guise,
That blindeth this world in wrath,
Whence baleful witherlings arise, 
By an onslaught wode and brath. 

Beseech a brethren for their will,
As deeds should not be gainsaid,
By the Deemer striding from a hill,
Where 'twas straightway foresaid. 

Rise from the skulls of madness,
Through the brimstones that swell,
As a light shall shine o'er darkness,
Where the shadows of death dwell.