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In the exosphere the Old Ones lay.
Acolytes with their rituals and fathers of the Lie
Gather to sing praise into the evil eyes
And bow their heads, moving forward to their own demise.

The horrors float on through the sky,
The sun’s light ripening in the
Exhaust of the god-like constructs that feed
On the very air we breathe.

Tortured existence.
Tortured existence.

The followers all gaze at the black stellar beings,
The ground underneath them dissolves into streams,
Awakening the sleepers from their old rest
And unleashing a terror in some cruel god’s jest.

They waited for millennia to exact their dark plans,
To animate the flesh of the broken and the dead.
Through necromancy we become
Puppets of the black will
With only one mission in mind:
Kill, kill.

Pray, bow, beg forgiveness of the light.
Pray, bow, trapped forever in hindsight.
Pray, bow.
Pray, bow.

The masses all swarmed the earth, living marionettes,
Spreading the disease of sorrow and deep regret
For the actions they took, in times of superstition, summoned not a savior but destroyers from other dimensions.

This will push all of us to the very edge.
That was their plan all along, to make our world bend.

This will push all of us to the very edge.
That was their plan all along, to make our world bend
To their wills.

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