Cold chiseled dagger

Of necrolore a spear of might

Wounds running deeper

Cuts are of devils teeth


Master cold, lower me down

To the desolation that carries my name

To the worlds that cower beneath me

My divine perversion twisted black


The northern face of these hills

The bitter face of disgust

With murderous precision

With a demon cloak of armor

Violently territorial


This lair of damnation

In November's rusted chains

By the boiling blood of saint

The dark will cut it's mark