1. The Tower

It soars
With its massive trunk breaching the clouds
It soars
Its shadow stretches across the land.

Its dominion from shore to shore,
Its spell creeps in under every door.
Its dominion from shore to shore,
The tower needs more.

Rule number 1
Each man is what he owns
Whether or not one truly exists is a question of having things
Rule number 2
Things have purpose while the only purpose of flesh is to possess them
Rule number 3
What one does not possess it is mandatory to land
Rule number 4
The bond is the marrow of your bones
Rule number 5
Debt is inherent and the birthright of the young

See it rise in the distance,
Massive mammoth made of stone
Contorting and expanding
Blood upon brick, brick on bone.

And it all leans down
Sloping heavily towards a shattered end on barren grounds.

Why did we build it?
Because they hate us.
Why do they hate us?
Because we built it.

And it all leans down
Sloping heavily towards a shattered end on barren grounds.

It soars
With its massive trunk breaching the clouds
It soars
Its shadow stretches across the land.

Its dominion from shore to shore,
Its spell creeps in under every door.
Its dominion from shore to shore,
The tower needs!
The tower is more!

As one draws closer to the spire beckoning you,
The crookedness straightens out dispelling each trace of doubt.
It is perfect in every seam
This divine gracious beam.
To the heavens up from the ground, a cable bound.

As one reaches further up,
Drawing closer to the top,
Of that divine gracious beam,
So perfect in every seam,

One will lose sight of the ground.
On ones journey heaven bound.
One will lose sight of the ground.
While one is heaven bound.
While one is heaven bound.
While one is heaven bound.
While one is heaven bound.
While one is heaven bound.

2. Divine – Appalling

We came offering our souls.
In search of light it's easy to find shadows.
At first all was clear as night.
But this would prove to fade.
As we pressed on deeper still,
we found the land you sold as golden meadows.
A blight ridden ashen ground and there we killed the truth.
Then compassion died too.
I know my death has a face.
It is an image of you, and you're plentiful.

There we would build our mounds.
On these scared cold plains, where dawn had turned to ashes.
Amongst men with empty eyes grace can't be distinguished.
In our quest for light we would advance and leave our wake in tatters.
Just like death on a rampant ride on our zealous quest for you.

There hung a rag for our wounds at the end of the line.
It meant death to go back; it was a crime of the mind.
When that whistle blew it was once more our time,
to show our spirits were primed and our bodies were ripe.
On the day we killed the truth and compassion died too.
My death is an image of you in its grandeur and grace; divine, appalling!

3. The Hound

There lies a beast, near the top of the stairs.
Weary and weak, in its final years.
Still at times you'll hear it howl.
Hear it howl at the wind a low haunted lament
for the glorious times spent stalking the halls of the tower.

Close to the sovereign's seat the wretched beast lies, dreary and riddled with lice.
Frail, weak and dirty, fur worn and thin, it barely bothers to shake off the flies.
It's years of glory now long past and gone; its body quakes, throbbing from the shame,
of its fall from grandeur into the bitter abyss, the oblivion of the useless and the maimed.

I used to hear it call my name, but the howl turned to a wail.
As the hound yearns, the past burns the beast at the top of the stairs...

Hear the beast's wailing call, a ghost from the past chasing through every hall,
a feeble shadow of what was once feared by us all.
He's a reluctant derelict from a bygone time,
still sending shivers down many a spine,
but a stranger still among its own kind, this pitiful ghost.

Hear the hound keeps calling, as it used to know our names,
but it can't recall them as its grip did slowly wane.
Yet the hound keeps calling, as it world keeps falling...

4. Blood On The Trail

Feint scent of fire in the cool night air, a smell of violence beneath the brooding moon's glare.
From the shadows it appears one leg drags through the dirt,
a shambolic shape in a hurry trembling with exertion.
The figure stops as if alerted by a sound, eyeballing the darkness thick above the muddy ground.
It shudders, turns and bolts down the crooked path, chasing or fleeing from some invisible wrath.

There is blood on the trail, a dotted line of sin that tells a wretched tale.
Blood on the trail whom does it tail?
Where goes that line of sin?
Who'll depart, who'll prevail?

Two shapes appear from whence the first figure came,
a legacy of violence to their names.
Rough and roughened up, urgent on there way,
it's hard to say if they're hunters or a dangerous prey.
Shortly thereafter appear four more,
slightly less crude than the ones who passed before.
Chasing and spilling the blood of other men.
What comes behind
Who or what is chasing them?

Blood on the trail!
A dotted line of sin that tells a wretched tale!
Blood on the trail, whom does it tail?
Where goes that line of sin, who'll depart who'll prevail?

The line grows thick.
That reddish mud sure sticks.
Some might wash away on a dark dreary, cold eerie night.
Still it won't be long until more men chase along down the road,
so remember to wash you blood from the trail.

5. The Dead Won't Mind

One by one send them shuffling down the slope.
In a jumble to tied together with string or rope.
In pairs or clustered like the ticks in a dead dog's ear.
The deceased... the dead... they just don't care.
You know the dead won't mind.

They won't mind if we cut them up into tiny little bits,
if we take away their children, throw them into the streets.
Sells them off for science or feed them to the throng,
the dead are easy; with the dead you can't go wrong.
Grind their bones to dust to fill in the cracks,
or hang them up as warnings along the hangman's rack.
Dead dogs don't bark, nor do dead dogs leave their mark.
The dead are easy, with the dead you can't go wrong.

6. A Knife Between Us

Know my brother that this is not something which I will enjoy,
but I have to defend what your reckless soul risks to destroy.
I'd love to love you but there is a knife between us.
You put it there.
I realize that I hold the handle,
while you stand at the bitter end of this blade between us,
I wish I could, but I cannot bend.
Even through my burden compels me, it comforts me in my troublesome chore.
I know you find this gruesome, well it's also something I abhor.

All know the furnace must be fed.
There is a logic to the fact that the furnace must be fed.
There is an infallible logic to the fact that the clattering bones
of the willingly mislead is a suitable fuel to light up the dusk that lies ahead.
All men know, and all agree.

I hope that you see my regrets are profound.
This is no wish of mine, but I am duty bound.
It stands to reason that each wrong must be corrected,
and each straying soul must be collected.

I curse and I howl, but I am duty bound, so I bury my guilt deep beneath a glorious mound.
I curse you for that knife between us, that wedge you drove deep down within us.

7. The Pulse Of Bliss

A thousand hinged screech as it opens its doors,
inviting eager and reluctant to settle its floors.
You must come in; within the fold we'll uncover your soul.
It might sting a bit but in the end will fit the mold.
Blood upon stone; consecrate, unify.
Clay upon bone; dead flesh must go to ally heart with solid brick.
Men of stone affirm all sticks to the pulse of bliss.
Thus the night will never come and our walls stand for evermore.

A thousand hinges groan as the doors all shut tight.
Sealed off, locked up secure from what lurks about in the night.
Here you are safe, from those who wish to befoul and deceive.
It's not a healthy option to even consider to leave.

Blood upon stone; consecrate, unify.
Clay upon bone; dead flesh must go to ally heart with solid brick.
Men of stone affirm all sticks to the pulse of bliss.
Thus the night will never come and our walls stand for evermore to the pulse of bliss,
in glorious light, this monument to what is right.

8. Sleepwalkers

In a grey haze I find myself crawling upwards on cold rock shelves.
Knees scratched and bleeding, my mind a blur.
On a path, but I don't know to where.
On my way I pass many folks heading up, down,
some as inert bulks, some come shambling in jerky streams
like sleepwalkers in a jittery dream.

As I reach further up the winding stairs,
I sense gradual shifts in the air.
It gets more cumbersome to breathe and climb and the fog thickens over a shrouded mind.
The passing shapes now seem to notice me more as something alien, something deplored.
As something dangerous, their faces tell, I'm a vile creature, an image of hell.

Countless shapes lift my body from the floor,
drags me off in wonder as to what I have in store,
will I soon be squandered?
Like a match burnt out, like a twisted nail..
Like bad cloth torn asunder, yanked away with force as thread was wrong.

I was expelled from the dream; ushered into oblivion.
Cast into the bowels of the great beyond,
into the unseen, slowly devoured by the void, that dreadful endless sea.

9. Lost Among Liars

Mother see your son, he's been lost amongst liars, in the night alone his direction dire.
Father see you sons they are at home amidst liars, enemies of the truth standing taller, higher.
Sudden shifts breaking the lines, the cracks that once were easy to find
are all hastily smeared out with time, to cover each crime.

When dues are called and one found to appall,
the further up then the longer the fall,
locked away from sight in a cellar stall
or thrown from a windows high upon the wall.