Of Montreal
Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse
No Sails to be hoist in the Morning,
No Way - just empty Horizons.
And deaf is all Noise in the cold Spray,
But loud tears what comes in Mind...
tears what comes in Mind.
Slow rot all earthly Shells
Embrace a thousand Hells
Alone in a Pit with the Demons,
Engreased by festering Grotesque,
Immured every Limb without Movement
Long Nights 'till suddenly SmokeLasers light
-'till Fires for the Count's Rise blaze bright
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