by Nick Gisburne
We kneel within the shadow of the skull
It suffocates our dreams with dark despair
We wait to hear the calling of the cull
A breath of expectation chills the air
They stole us, broke us, shackled us in chains
The necromantic phantoms of the night
A hundred thousand souls have crossed the plains
To this, the end of hope and life and light
The brutish horns of chaos sound our doom
Appalled, we trudge in terror through the gates
The flower of our future fails to bloom
The curse of cold oblivion awaits
We feel a presence, dripping with disease
And fall to face the slaughter on our knees
