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...
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