Go forth, emissary
Who makes it back
I hope that I'm back
Intoxicate
Who makes it back
You wouldn't turn back

Fed on obsidian
Scarred, enflamed, then raised my own
My mind, found inverted
Furrows of grief outgrown

Face down the predicate foe
Face down its will to hurt
Or its replete will to nothing
Distortion almost contact claws right out of my body

Not of the crown, but of my flesh
To distillate my fate was sent over the veil with the rest
Finally cleared the crest

What do I do with the black oil seeping out my pores