The scourge appears as a formless occurrence, an occult duskfall laid upon the mind.
Its concept is the art of all gods' purpose and coercions, an incarceration engulfing the men we were.
Corroborating pale progress, consuming the thoughts from the captive earth.
The words start interweaving, we're deafened unconscious, with no words left to whisper in the wind.
The pace of progress tied a blindfold to our palsied faces.
Yet again, its concept is the art of all gods purpose and coercions, engulfing the men we were.
Dark earth beyond, oh Elohim descend, as you see us rot in the glow of his primal deceptive light.
As you see us hurt ourselves in the treacherous shine of his foul miscreation, Elohim descend!
Take this falsehood from us, and deliver us from the tentacles of the sun.
Corroborating pale progress, consuming the thoughts from the captive earth.
The words start interweaving, we're deafened unconscious, the pale eyes flickering sickness-fed.
