Commanders Of The Fleet

Risen to collect a fluttering hope
Of wings unbound,
And hatred's sound.
I catch a glimpse of mana's slope
An open shell,
To the gates of hell.

Peer at what was once a seed of life.
Taken from your mother's uncle's wife.

Chorus:
Pair up with a gentle breeze,
And grope at living shackles.
A weight on shoulders undersized,
To grieve on unsent tackles.

Blackened seasons all year long,
Progress to holy angles.

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