We are the internal,
Living off of every thought
That seeps through the mind,
The flare inside that sparks anti-life.
We are the eternal,
The immortal consciousness
That remains beyond death,
The decaying stench of timeless suffering.
We are the inner shadows,
Another reason for unbound tragedy
And blood-curdling adrenaline,
The feeling of anguish and pain.
We are the blackened void,
The sting of lacerations
That tear through rotten flesh,
The blackened fear of mortality.
We are the premonitions,
The visions of the coffin
In the dank depths of the tomb,
The bloody pools from dripping corpses.
We are the afterthoughts,
The remembrance of an evil deed
Committed in an act to destroy beauty,
The murder of all that was once loved.
We are the sleepers,
The unsound patience
Lurking in the shadows of damnation,
The chill of a terrible post-existence.
We are the unseen,
Forever watching, waiting
For the right moment to strike,
The blackened light of hate-filled persistence.