Masochism, iron bone,
A toxin of the gem and stone,
A night to dance around in pain,
With nothing more than hallow gain.
Erratic fire, occult blaze,
The mind, a dark and twisted maze,
The day of death, the Necromage,
A shrine of night upon the stage.
A cult of dread, the surface, pure,
Within the frosted heart's allure,
Depicting scenes of abstract ink,
Deluded roots taint all to think.
A midnight drift, upon the page,
Of words that read with pain and age,
Of words that tell of resurrection,
Morte, Morte, craft perfection.
Pentacle, set on reverse,
Ensnared upon the final verse,
The veil parts, the soul, a-flood,
In waves of tears and icy blood.
The night falls, still, the clouds fall, thick,
The flames grant earth a final lick,
Before they die, for their subside,
Preludes their wrath to naught have lied.
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