Song Cover Image

Charcoal March of Spiders: Thumbnail Spider March (Version 1.2) (Cover)

(The Scripture of Consumption) Once, there was a small maiden… who climbed a whirlwind over water, over and over, until she reached the top and became a mother. To one child, she said “I have many things to show you.” And to another, she said “You may rest within my home and eat, no need to fly.” And to a third, she said “How beautiful you are.” And as each heard her words and came to the center of the web, [sad sigh] she ate them. *Instrumental* (Verse 1) With a step, a breath, and threads thin, The strings are drawn, the feast begins. This will not end in a single strike, but with millions of hungry fangs, By a thousand times a thousand attacks, those in my path are unmade. (Pre-Chorus) Many flee, but they fall as they turn too late, And learn this march does not so easily abate. No blade can deflect, no shield can defend, For even if a few spiders fall, the swarm’s path will not bend. (Chorus) Like thumbnail spiders migrating beneath the eastern sky, By a million tiny mouths all will be devoured as they die. No clash, no counter, they can only retreat, By the dance’s end, the swarm will eat. Like a tide of hunger and silk unseen, A thousand cuts, swallowing screams. They acted too slow, fled too late, The feast is set—this is their fate. (Verse 2) Others may swing, they try to strike back, but nothing lands, And they become caught in my strands. This is the end of their travels, Within my threads: undone, unraveled. (Bridge) My march strikes all at once, too much for anyone to fight, With my steps come countless bites. The strings are drawn, the web is spun, The feast is set—all mercy is gone. (Final Chorus) Like thumbnail spiders migrating beneath the eastern sky, By a million tiny mouths all will be devoured as they die. No clash, no counter, they can only retreat, By the dance’s end, the swarm will eat. Like a tide of hunger and silk unseen, A thousand cuts, swallowing screams. They acted too slow, fled too late, The feast is set—this is their fate. (Outro) The threads grow still, the land stripped bare, Where only echoes can crawl and remain there. By these arts and threads… All those in my path are now dead.