Here they come with all their desire,
To the head of the spear that burns like fire.
Here they come with their arms hanging towards the back
And headbands to cover the sanity that they lack.
As foretold by the date, seven twenty,
The deaths will grow by the many.
Might as well burn my dread.
Fate warned of the fealty of your coming.
Did you listen?
No, all of you lot are still running.
Fate may be wise, but I am wiser.
Thank to you, my logic can't get higher.
The end is coming fast as it draws near.
I hope you don't have people who hold you dear.
No need to dread what was thought to be a possibility;
Fate knows better than most, so quell your responsibility.
Let your dread burn, for its futile to keep.
Look away from the coming of the lambs.
Know that even the end has an end.
Just burn your dread to the last few grams.
There they go, littering the ground with dripping warmth.
There she is, here to collect what is left.
I will burn my dread and harden my heart.
May there be justice for those who are smart.