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You're Not Even Really Here

de Theo Bleak

In the murk od the firs and depth of the ponds a nameless horror did swell.
From whence it came and whither it shall go not the wisest man could tell.
Just one shuttered light through the darkness shines,
a lonesome hut at the fetid moor...
It is filled with fright and with hopeless whines from a boy, young and pure.

Winds howls - evil prowls
at the chamber door.
Fog rolls - dead souls
in the dark galore.

Wood crack - pitch black
at the chamber door.
Swamps brew - clouds spew
in the dark galore.

It is the demon of the mire, he shall rest for nevermore.
Whom he calls and haunts by ill desire, he shall rest for nevermore.
Through his realms he leads his ghostly choir, he shall rest for nevermore.
It is the demon of the mire, he shall rest for nevermore.
The boy it did consume, forever he will dwell in the malice of his doom...

Winds howls - evil prowls
at the chamber door.
Fog rolls - dead souls
in the dark galore.

Wood crack - pitch black
at the chamber door.
Swamps brew - clouds spew
in the dark galore.

It is the demon of the mire, he shall rest for nevermore.
Whom he calls and haunts by ill desire, he shall rest for nevermore.
Through his realms he leads his ghostly choir, he shall rest for nevermore.
It is the demon of the mire, he shall rest for nevermore.

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