Consider the many,
watch as they fall down path of lies;
you laugh at them.
They find your kind crude, murderous,
even call you a witch;
you agree with them.
Following your arcane you isolate their breed;
you cut them, rendering them from their own pity.
Strings of the fiddle snap into the face of the righteous;
you break another.
They are truly the unforgiven;
they are the mute bat, blind as can be.
They scream for attention,
we ignore their lifeless calls and break the fiddle string.
Snap, snap; their eyes bleed,
so we feast upon their dripping cries.
Their fields of truth burn;
prepare our harvest.
Plant our seeds.
Snap the final string.