Something about the thunder crack,
Something about the bloodred dawn,
The withins of the color black,
The early morning sun is already gone.
We have an imagination so creative and unique,
We fake the joy in an attempt to hide malicious intent,
That leaves us broken and alone, completely weak.
They ignore the faux, they bury their blade, a perfect show of contempt.
This world is imperfect, it's defected numerous times and remains ever warped,
They hide in the shadows never to come out and breath the air,
It's a corrupt sword that bleeds the life of the marked,
It's a heavy burden we all must bear.