Monstrous spire spears the purple
Mote of dust breaches tarnished portal
Far below
Of it's own free will and accord
It isn't every day that a god dies
Or every age that a mortal tries
To reach the terrace immortal
World crawls around its axis
An endless search for a perfect season
Over the apogee of suffering
And into the watchful eyes of fallen angels
Watching from their holy places
Blessed art they amongst the brethren
Hero of the Hallowed
Minstrel plays the weakness of mankind
Upon bone horn and skin stretched over drum
A half helm fountain of wildflowers
A banner: cellar of salt over black field
Impotent in the breathless air
Suicidal stillness
Mote of dust flies from portal
In terror
It was never meant to be
Never, ever, ever, ever, ever
Ever, ever, ever, ever
Ever, ever, ever, ever
Ever, ever, ever, ever
Ever, ever, ever meant to be
