Omniscient specters cast voided glares upon ourselves,

Their bitter shadows loom from within their eyes,

Freezing our very entities with their stares,

Lulling us into a frosted death.

The cold is an infinite fire,

A tomb that holds you within yourself,

Not to die of fire or natural death,

But a painful fringe to end our lives.

If our god truly loves us so,

The only thing that is assured,

Is the greatest gift that can be given,

Is the holy purge that is called death.