The Harvest

Shell-proof and safety locked
The boxes round their heads
Isolated and stored
Ego-wired to the core

In a frenzy the merry-go-round
Of their monkey minds
The optical delusion
Of their consciousness grimed

Depressing ignominies
And godless mockeries
They're dancing on the graves
Of the ones they made slaves

Voracious bloodbath
Leaving life-mocking strands
For the bowls of wrath
Were found in their own hands

All the pain and death
And all the seeking and all the breaking
It has not been in vain
For with every strike of the threshing flail
The harvest, it will end this bloody reign

Their eyes turned away from heaven
Underyoked and downtrodden
By all things fucking hostile
To the nature of the soul

Leaving gutted scorched earth
On their rapine damned
For the bowls of wrath
Were found in their own hands

All the pain and death
And all the seeking and all the breaking
It has not been in vain
For with every strike of the threshing flail
The harvest, it will break these crushing chains

Depressing ignominies
And godless mockeries
They're dancing on the graves
Of the ones they made slaves

Voracious bloodbath
Leaving life-mocking strands
For the bowls of wrath
Were found in their own hands

(Nothing will be left but graven words, and only the stones will tell of their piety)

All the pain and death
And all the seeking and all the breaking
It has not been in vain
For with every strike of the threshing flail
The harvest, it will break these crushing chains

All the silence and all the light
And all the breath and death will soothe the haunting pain
For with every blow of the reaping hook
The harvest will end this fucking reign