Dreams, clinging to these sheets through fevers oh so forceful,
It cloys in spite of sigils round my neck,
These visions come from figures starched and copper,
Their words a harsh duet.
A holy cacophony,
The Sulfur sings...
Pull your weight,
A Choral Forecast;
Cause a clash,
The Choral Forecast chants:
‘Become the itch to life's ash’
Cloaked in linen, sufficient, the fair theurgist,
Though these hooded features appear soft, they belie a knowledge hardest fought,
My powers known to many!
A god blessed logo, protects my figure,
The need for self-improvement, a dull light lingers,
A repertoire of salted psalms, whitest whispers.
The Sulfur’s singing goes on and on…
Tears fall from eyes,
Urging for strength,
Bearing such a piercing pressure,
Haunted by an immense measure.
Crushed, unearthly potence,
Feel the dread scorch blasting me,
I'm unstitched, a shattered gleam.
So they stand, showing me, what could be,
Holy cacophony, the Sulfur sings…
Sparks, can lead the way,
Sparks, when ignited clash to lead the way.
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