From ashes of a tree obsidian walls rise around.
A ghost conjuring tragedy. Don’t make a sound.
The Obsidian Lord feasts on the hysteria and fear.
Like exuberant birds scattered by a gunshot
We’re the prey in this great hunt. For every tear
They still offer us no mercy. Rage so hot
Burning the rope that we hold onto ever so dear
In hopes that we can find water. Caught
Between hurt and hope yet, tomorrow is so near.
From a well we can still replenish what’s been lost
In search of who we are. They don’t understand
What we have on the inside that keeps us going.
No matter the darkness standing right before us we walk
Without fear. Never give them an inch or they’ll talk and talk.