Sons Of Thunder - Woe of Tyrants

There is no foothold here in these miry depths

Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone

Frantic laughter bubbling throughout

Voice strained from screaming, parched and shrill

With each breath comes an influx of my waste

Beasts sovereign, circling, searching for their feast

Their mouths foaming, sensing blood in the dirty water

Its the primal craving which prevails disgust

But how did I get here?

The first of oh so many questions

Delayed are the angels melodies, ensnared in this bog

But this place is familiar

The sites, the sounds, the face of the beast

Breathing mirrors reflecting me, I share in their needs

The absence of love, abundance of filth

Left to consider the familiarity of my despair

Deprived innocence, I am deserving of this place

Entitlement, I have what I’ve chosen

The virgin weeping, blackened eyes dripping contempt

Actions and disgraces, I have many faces here

The frowning masks of the tragedy, many faces here

With one final glare my head slips under the mud

I reach, still finding nothing

Which I can grab to reach the surface again

Dimming into dark is the heart that fades away

I sink into the darkest deep

Finally I give in to the hands touch

Embracing what they say

I submit to the nightmare of the mire

Finding solace in the choice to fall into breathing

Depths, depths, depths

There is no foothold here in these miry depths

Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone

Frantic laughter bubbling throughout

Voice strained from screaming, parched and shrill