Here death is so loud
Corpses slowly rise from
The cold earthly cloud
In this frozen winter forest
Watch the entrancing necro dance
As narrated by the old lorist
Watch their shadows dancing
Like ghost marionettes on his face
Fed by the sleek flames prancing
In these feral forests
The unnatural thrive
In these winter forests
The necro dancers cry
Wolves quietly prowl the snow
Creating a babbling corpse run-off
To join the roaring dark pooling flow
In this evil betrothed winter forest
You might become a putrefying dancer
As warned by the old hermit lorist
In this dark and shadowed land
Evil eyes watch you all in a mirrored place
Where your pulse is contraband
In these feral forests
The unnatural thrive
In these winter forests
The necro dancers cry
And when summer comes
The forest turns a dark sullen green
The rain pours strong and cold
The dancers rest fitfully
And resort to a haunting whisper
In a winter’s forest so feral
Nothing is what it seems
And the old man, the lorist, retreats into his lair
And looks out the window with an in-human stare
How can a living being survive so long with the dead?
But observe closely, he has no heart beat, he has no breath
There’s an image in his non dilating eyes, one of living death
Could it be. . . this forest is his stage?
Is it that the dead are his loyal theater troupe?
Is it that the evil vibrations are notes of his symphony?
Is the necro dance held every winter’s night by . . .
Him, a necromancer?
In a winter’s forest so feral
Nothing is what it seems. . .
Or is it
Corpses slowly rise from
The cold earthly cloud
In this frozen winter forest
Watch the entrancing necro dance
As narrated by the old lorist
Watch their shadows dancing
Like ghost marionettes on his face
Fed by the sleek flames prancing
In these feral forests
The unnatural thrive
In these winter forests
The necro dancers cry
Wolves quietly prowl the snow
Creating a babbling corpse run-off
To join the roaring dark pooling flow
In this evil betrothed winter forest
You might become a putrefying dancer
As warned by the old hermit lorist
In this dark and shadowed land
Evil eyes watch you all in a mirrored place
Where your pulse is contraband
In these feral forests
The unnatural thrive
In these winter forests
The necro dancers cry
And when summer comes
The forest turns a dark sullen green
The rain pours strong and cold
The dancers rest fitfully
And resort to a haunting whisper
In a winter’s forest so feral
Nothing is what it seems
And the old man, the lorist, retreats into his lair
And looks out the window with an in-human stare
How can a living being survive so long with the dead?
But observe closely, he has no heart beat, he has no breath
There’s an image in his non dilating eyes, one of living death
Could it be. . . this forest is his stage?
Is it that the dead are his loyal theater troupe?
Is it that the evil vibrations are notes of his symphony?
Is the necro dance held every winter’s night by . . .
Him, a necromancer?
In a winter’s forest so feral
Nothing is what it seems. . .
Or is it