Pentarch Lyrics

As the years drag on
Burdensome accumulations
Towing the yoke of history
Tilling arid soil
Once defiant, honed and gleaming,
Marred by regrets and defeats
In private wars of little wider consequence
The blade now dull and heavy,
Futile

No closer than before
The end can never come
Only a fool would seek
Release from his labours
Within my panopticon
Lashed, limbs outstretched
Fastened at five points
Dislocated from the core

Withering in stasis
Awaiting conclusion

Searing heat of illumination
Ceaseless pain of salvation

Searing
Heat
Ceaseless
Pain