, , , ,

Through endless corridors they forge

Ceaseless in their march

No goal no final destination

Their journey drives them on

To loot and burn

And pillage thought

Lay waste to all things new

No pathway left untouched

Tainted by their kiss

Ice born fingers wrap themselves

Around each virgin thought

Choke the words before they form

Replaced by well worn scars

And conscience bows its shameful head

As still their march goes on.