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de Archaic Ritual

With hands of sand
I take the life from my shadow
(Weeping guilt with my heart)
Turning memories, into martyrs
Crumbling here where I stand...


Just the same
Cruel winter bears its fruit in silence
And draws its final sighs
Save me from this certain fate
Burn this will from my eyes


The spirit wanes and appearances shift
(With the fire my sight makes its fall)
Staring down the madness in each of my hands
(To breathe the last pulse of faith)


And as the dawn breaks, my desolation is clear
My salvation is no one
There will be no deliverance
When promises die...


With the morning I fade
With the promises I break
With the sand, I turn to dust
And where were you then?

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