The Lonesome, Aging Seraph

Surrounded By Flaming Wheels

All Aflame By The Light Of The Spirt

Lifts Up Its Wings To Guide The Dead

Calloused, Guilty Hands Grip At The Feathers

A Foothold Will Never Come

The Seraph Wants To Tell Them

He Wants The Ghosts To Hope

But He Cannot Gather The Words

And There Is No Hope To Be Found

Only The Catastrophic Swing Of Beelzebub's Gavel

And The Endless Screaming From The Lake Bottom