In the darkest hours,
you can hear them call,
call out to everyone.

"Let us keep, that which is ours,
damn everyone, damn them all,
for we, are second to none."

Shadowy figures, ascend from their grave,
to begin their unholy dance,
like sirens they call you in.

They'd have you know, there's nothing to save,
and if you dare give them a second glance,
that's when they truly begin.

Holding on to each other,
in a sturdy grip,
around their grave they go.

Supportive, like brother to brother,
careful not to trip,
and others look on, letting it be so.

But their spell is broken,
morning is near,
and they have nowhere to turn.

The midnight chant, is no longer spoken,
and more and more they fear,
the rays of morning sun burn.

The world moves on