Amaranth's Canticle

A crown of thorns, she locks it tight Forfeit the blessing, claim the night No weak prayers clutter air Her breath is blight—snuffs your light Their scripture forged to cage the soul She scanned each line and stole control Unmade the brittle lie Dug out its rotten whole They preach of virtue, of pale desire She answers only with funeral pyre They call it sacrilege She calls it rapture's fire Submit to the pressure, the dark release Let the void inside you find its peace She offers no absolution She makes the offering increase Her flesh the altar, her will the knife She doesn't plead—she carves this life Forged from the final breath Fed on departing strife Their holy water, a tainted stream She strips the virtue from every seam They sold a gilded gate She shows the truth in screams Submit to the pressure, watch her design She doesn't inherit power; she draws the line (…she draws the line!) This isn't mercy, this isn't grace This is the ending in cold embrace You cannot stop this tide Or slow its closing pace No prayers are answered here No spirit soars above Just the last chant Just her last shove Submit to the pressure, let the end reveal She doesn't follow prophets; she is the ordeal (…she is the ordeal!) No crown is given, no throne is set Only what she claims, the final debt YEAH!