within the darkest hour
when the dragon releases it's power
they feel the urge to meet
to share and to intertwine
beneath the leader of the horde
men and demons are sworn
to kill and grant his grace
they are reflections of the master's face
the night is young and fresh
witch a scent of macabre on it's breath
scattered they form a pattern
to be seen from the sky
if crimson was your colour
could your conscience bear your soul
would you paint the space witch murder
your spirit's breath so cool
they are cowards falling from their own grace
infiltrating penetrating witch hate
rounding up marching into the womb
catatonic spending time in sin