Mournful Congregation - A Slow March To The Burial

Black painted hearse idles slowly,
Procession follows at a morbid pace,
The pallbearers steady in their march,
Befitting this most sacred ceremony

Ornate brass handles clasped
By solemn faced black clad men
Shining black casket lid
Inlaid in crimson silk

In there lies your father, son....

A father to a son and a son to a father
Now claimed by the coldest hand of death

Faintest scent of fresh cut white rose petal
Choked by the musty scent of fresh turned earth

Funereal they march....... Funereal they march.......
Funereal they march....... Funereal they march Открыть страницу с текстом

Like the joining of two mighty seas
The star stream of darkness meets
The paleness of dawn
Shattering the backbone of night
From the horizon and across the skies

Brilliant flames first red
Climb slowly to the white heat,
Lucent slendor arcs westward
The shadows cast betrays,
As if borne by four winds

Overtaking, Overtaking, Inexorable

The descent of flames,
The rise of calm twilight,
As the night smothers the day.... Открыть страницу с текстом

Sometimes I feel, long ago life took the last breath from me
Life itself, the grand enemy
The white bride of wretched death, did guide me through gardens grey
The fruit of which, would only fall to rot away

Amidst such vast gardens, even the sun itself doth seem so pallid
And the once glorious moon, its pallor so unhallowed

Seven statues of saddened stance
Perhaps the craft of a man still sadder
Fallen leaves of the thrice dead oak
A morbid portrayal of a once grand majesty

What would one tear filled glimpse stand to reveal?

The subtle fragrance perhaps? ...of a bloody wretched death!
Up on his grey green throne
Stained with the horror of a thousand bloodied suicides
Sate the Suicide Choir

Kneel before the Suicide Choir...
Be judged by your suicidal desire... Открыть страницу с текстом

Silence falls from its sleepless slumber
The night breeze falls to the dawn
Soundless, solemn, sun broken sky
Cried her dirges forlorn;

Through winding paths
White cold wrath burnt frozen blood

I long to writhe in your splendid exaltation
Let hands slither down your watery embasquement
And arouse the sleeping seraph, from certain mortal slumber
Wherein its treasures of inception, become a handbook for the dead
What doth lie behind the darkness of the closed eye?
From where doth the sun draw it's flames?

Answers float in circles, questions dissolve in light
1000 years of peace after, 10,000 years of misery
Arc of the angels, hewn by the sunlight dawn
Divine crescent burning black, shower the heavens and the earths
Kindle the flame, Upon deaths and upon births. Открыть страницу с текстом