Servants of Death
The urge to kill now self aware Voiceless breath Bestial glare Crimson red No finer scent Towards the eight points the circle is bent Savage instinct now given form to the beating of leather wings and the growing of horns
Submitted by The Void — Jun 22, 2026
Down in the trench It's where I belong Covered in earth with ash in my lungs Miles of sunken fields scorched with blood and rust A barbed wire leash not tight enough Flesh split apart by the swing of a bayonet No room for mercy in the service of death Down in the trench It's where I belong The battlefield my home Cannons fire into the night as the front lines break in retreat Nothing left but a glorious death Hell I am eager to meet
Submitted by The Void — Jun 22, 2026
Martial disarray The time has come to obey Fall back into rank Or your life I shall take Victory grows nearer The final stand It's kill or be killed Butchered to a man The casualties grow as does my lust For blood must flow The opposition must be crushed Cursed to be so bold The glory shall be mine The slaughter begins The battlefield grows dim Death on the front line
Submitted by The Void — Jun 22, 2026
Cold and cruelly calculated Godly precision Silent execution Death from above The turning point Preordained extermination No shelter from the fusillade World torn asunder Orbital bombardment Detonation begins and with it life ends All you know reduced to cinders Planetary decimation
Submitted by The Void — Jun 22, 2026