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If Crimson Was Your Colour
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Witchcraft
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Within the darkest hour When the dragon releases its power They feel the urge to meet To share and to intertwine. Beneath the leader of the horde Men and demons are sworn To kill and grant his grace They are reflections of the Devil's face. The night is young and fresh With a scent of macabre on its breath. Scattered they form a pattern To be seen from the sky. If crimson was your colour Could your conscience bear your soul Would you paint the space with murder Your spirit's breath so cool. They are cowards falling from their own grace Infiltrating penetrating with hate Rounding up marching into the womb Catatonic spending time in sin.
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