| Carved by hours of many fullmoon cycles
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| His face an abyss, hands eroded by drudgery
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| Bearing ruins, bearing perdition on his shoulders
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| In the eye and in the morn
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| The old spirit is walking onward, but walking forlorn
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| A cursed destiny
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| Neither crown nor halo upon the head
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| A vast trial
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| A vast burden
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| That he cannot shed
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| An obscure aura
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| That emanates from a body that has bled
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| A moribund walker
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| A silent talker
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| He strides among the dead
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| With genuine will
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| They call him the doomed
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| They call him the possessed
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| But what they don’t know is
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| That his soul is more than blessed
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| They advise him to plead
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| And kneel in front of Yahweh’s altar
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| To call for divine intervention
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| It would be the cry for
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| A celestial empire that has never been
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| And will never reveal salvation
|
| Beyond the borders of society
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| Beyond the borders of normal man
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| Walks the follower of the left hand path
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| And beyond the borders of flesh
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| And beyond the manifestations of time
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| The forlorn wanderer will find a kingdome for his self
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| A kingdome for the forlorn
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| Everything was left behind
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| Except the will to strive for higher
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| Chaos preacher raise your voice
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| Invoke the black illuminating fire
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| Give birth to mental liberation
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| And death to stagnation
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| In your kingdome forlorn
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| Unexpected strength and power
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| Channels the hungry wide eye gazer
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| The more inconspicuous he acts outwardly
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| The wilder the nature behind the pupil
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| Marked by symbols and divine hands
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| His face a mask, his hands are tools and weapons
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| Bearing wisdom, bearing faith, king of the unknown |