The Metal

Thud This thing born of breath and bone, Seated on its secret throne, A harbinger of ignition, Pulling us from our perdition. Thud By the dream and the waking, Anger ripe for the taking; It reaps the spite from our minds. By moon and star, flesh it grinds. Thud Distortion: its holy blade. Singing songs of pain and rage Wrought of mortal blood and steel, Hefted high with fervent zeal. Thud The power of death endowed While the thunder rolls throughout This keen five-minute crusade. In finale, the sin fades Thud The Metal cannot be stopped. Born from those who rolled and rocked It’s darkness: a warm embrace. Rage released, a swift escape. Thud Thud. And pounding, my heart feels the pull of the music, and it knows that it is free.