Dustin Alabama

This twisted, wretched place shadowed by
the utmost darks of Hell.
In dreams of black beyond the bounds
of a withered witch's spell.
Where the doors surely are locked,
where the sun threatens to wane.
Where shamblers dwell in dim moon light
beyond the warmth of of day.
Liars line the roads at dawn,
watchful eyes are upon you.
Held sacred weapons to the sacred revealed,
to be unleashed upon this council of Hell.
Blood flows the streets at night
where wolves cry out for flesh.
Where a horrible curse taints the woodlands nearby
with the forms of the walking dead.
Unholy inversion of hope
twisting the faith of the meek into hate,
driven insane by the dark one.
To bring forth the foul biddings, he speaks.
The undead are among us, at dawn
they shrink back to their silken beds.
They dance by night and drink the blood
of a child's broken neck.
His spires are growing taller still,
their shadows spreading throughout the land,
freeing the evils that sleep within
the weaker minds of man.
Into the tower, never go.
The horrors multiply.
Gears can mince the strongest ones,
leaving heroes paralyzed.
The rivers flow with poison,
the sands swallow you whole,
the ghouls that roam this darkened wood
are thirsting for your throat.
Unholy inversion of hope
twisting the faith of the meek into hate,
driven insane by the dark one.
To bring forth the foul biddings, he speaks.
The undead are among us, at dawn
they shrink back to their silken beds.
They dance by night and drink the blood
of a child's broken neck.
His spires are growing taller still,
their shadows spreading throughout the land,
freeing the evils that sleep within
the weaker minds of man.