The wandering stranger assaults you with guilt, not with 
guile.
The spoken word, spurious. It likely wouldn't push one to 
sway. With doubtful experience, it plotted us a path that 
wound back again.
The halls are cavernous and twist the sound as bait. 
Quickly drawn away, open jaw. Dig the hook inside while 
we bray.
Now the horns' blows have carried away and we're 
remorseful for the call. When the very life of you is 
swept away and reverent then what worth have you? The air 
we breathe is the air we'll be bellowing. How loud claps 
the storm? What fury will we swallow away?