• A dimly lit melody that graces the sky, over and under, waiting to die. The faint voice of hope, that lands on a slope, a dark deep drop, that feeds on the crop. The witch's they howl, and bite in the wind, the song birds they die, and wither within.

    All of our thoughts, they feed the disease, that flows through the stars, and wanders with ease. In our minds, the song birds they wait, to darken our hearts, and feed on our hate. They curl and breathe, and writhe with life, resurrected again. they will cause more spite.

    But in this hour, will we believe, and feed to them, as they work their disease. Or will we laugh, and corner their hate, will we surrender, or will it be fate? Will we all die, and rot in vain. Will we stand up, or die in shame?

    Only the spirits that glide through the gate, will ever be able to answer our fate.