At the bottom of hell is where I came to,
storming around and reconciling through.
The day won't end and it's regret will soothe,
my obscurity of red, intertwined with blue.
How can I reach alibi, and relinquish you.
Reach the hands of tormented time,
salvage the skulls of the demented and sublime,
and rescue mine, the oblivion of the lie.
Overcast skies and I am alone.
The toil of one some will know,
as a rose withered grown,
I tread these black hills alone.
Let the feverous rain moisten my soul,
as the steps grow deeper in unsaving soil.
Lest the clouds beckon the plain,
and my blistered hands rise again,
I will keep my sickness for it's vicious sake.
Sinister as the storm's hallowed heathened hate.
And wicked as a lion, I hear your vile roar.
Like a rhapsody of Sheol, Christen me evermore.
Of saints in an asylum with ravaged doors,
whose secrets of death pervert the sovereign Lord.
I will seize this struggle, and vilify my grace.
We see as through a glass darkly, but in time, face to face.
So loosen your reserve and kindled carcassed state,
and let the elation of loneliness rain and proliferate.