An essence, ethereal, dark beneath the waves – brooding, seething, guiding me. The portents, a bestial cloud that lies in wait – pulling, seizing, rising. A devil, reaching for a crumbled throne, whose wings were cut but soon will grow. The anvil, forging chains for dying crones, waiting to don its crown of bones and leave, forever in its wake.
Harbinger of oblivion! Beast has found its home, dead meadows. The willing slaves to conjure – mine, no longer.
We are one by our command, tied in blood! We are the flood! The coming flood at hand!
Crowning rite, blackest blood, spiral snakes, entwined. Hunter grows in darkness – even rulers bow to masters now.
We are one by our command, tied in blood! We are the flood! The coming flood at hand!
Sacrifice the mind to a cold apparition. Asleep, behind its eyes, an altar yielding to every desire. The world beneath, a dream.
A Rider, a curse upon the priors! Destroyer, devouring the fire! Swollen ground, beckoning the pyre. A Rider, a curse upon the priors!
You've probably heard that our fellow Columbus-ite, Ben Sharp, is a goddamned genius. We challenge you to dislike this, our favorite of his albums. Sleepers Awake
Half our band's (the Chris's) other band, with less vocals and more doom. Seriously good stuff, but don't just take our biased word for it. Think for yourself, listen to White Wolves. Sleepers Awake