Piles of bones, shone the bright light you preach to me.
Eyes fit for a king, sing my insanity to little regretful me.
A mass grave of all the decay i coughed up for you.
Miasma of drought.
Poison clouds pull me down.
Plague bearer, denounced.
Brought to me on the backs of that gold laced chariot.
Dragged by the souls of the forgotten now forced to ferry it.
With it a wake of un-life, a gaseous knife to end us by the thousands.
Plague bearer, denounce us.
Queen or shriveled wretch, we all serve the same lord in death.
Death cloud or madness we consumed, we will all loose our precious breath.
Bow down to the lord of flies.
Sheer white lace, just enough to hide the lies.
One by one sever our mortal ties.
Flesh from bone, flayed next to those we chose to chastise.
The pit is the pit, with or without you in it.
A king of man, just one or the many dammed.
A Mass grave to sire fourth walking un-life.
Walk across the trenches, the very chains of death we fight.
The pit spits up those who rage against light.
We are legion. We are swarm.
We move as one flooding form.