| Fog, on the coldest night
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| Creeps the whispers, the thickest mouldy breath
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| Up against all deafened ears, secrets flickered, sharp as flames
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| It is old, it is unknown
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| Touching the frosted stone, like a serpent’s husk
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| A cancerous, malevolent, parasitic, soul disease
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| Under salted waves, the greying sky
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| Demand a service in wrath
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| By the mountains high temples rusting
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| And the markings of claws
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| Pointing to fires above
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| From the deep beyond sanity
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| The ancient race
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| Claws and fingers reach
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| Seeping out of the conscious
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| The precursor to madness
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| Creaking open the door
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| It rears its horns
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| It’s calling out
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| Black grit entered the mouth and eyes and ears, worked its way between his skull
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| Trying to make him a part of the ocean, just like the dead things
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| They saw darkness, felt unbearable presence in the icy cold of unknown deaths
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| Do you see it?
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| From its resting place, it is the night, the terror and desire
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| Touchless and looming it borrows, deep inside of all minds, open the void
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| Expand the evil, expand the hate, and in its frailty
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| In frozen, unknown horror, boundless lunacy
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| Of aeons
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| Death
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| It is night, it is unearthed, and from the seas and from the crypts
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| On the winds, blowing madness through the mirror, of aeons |