S o n g   f o r   a   W r a i t h
	
	Across the valley, you see the fog descend,
	A thick and evil cloud like smoke.
	Cresting the hill, you taste the devil's mist, and,
	under your breath: "I am home."
	
	Through the forest, the woods creak and moan,
	but you walk swift without a sound.
	Standing now at the gateway made of bone,
	there's only one thing left for you now.
	
	Kill. Die.
	The whispers torment you at night.
	Live. Cry.
	A sweet and suffocating lie.
	Your. Voice.
	Oh, let me hear it one last time.
	Tell. Me.
	Why.
	
	The harpy's talons only cut the flesh of prey,
	"Oh, how I envy such a creature."
	And even still not even Midas knows your pain,
	"What is there left for me to live for?"
	
	Kill. Die.
	The whispers torment you at night.
	Live. Cry.
	A sweet and suffocating lie.
	Your. Voice.
	Oh, let me hear it one last time.
	Tell. Me.
	Why is it all I touch must die?