Spiritual Successor Engulfed In Fortitude

 
Dead as a doornail and bled with intent
I see it in the eyes of a shambling man
Regret the past with febrile intent, the epistle to mass consequence

Wash your hands of all the filth, layers of negative greed
Collect your ransom of virtue, straight from the throat of a coward

Budding in delight of such a plight, putting the marks to the maker
I see its intent, at one with oneself, building and lifting the battles

Syllables alert, the stray in the pack, I wish for no more than my penury, if beauty be found in such tragedy, it will stand for the test of time

I’ve broken my back, in a quiet service to all those who would kneel and wane
In the time of great need, when the veil is lifted, compunction will be requisite

And now as I flounder at the end of my words, all hardships ingrained in my character
I whelp to the feet of a glorious beat, all rife with the flame, tongs and hammer

Witness stertorius perseverance, the broken regiments of clay
And realise one night that not all who stand silent are so afraid of the day…