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 Master'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