• The Audience is my pagan god
    My opponent holds the sacrificial blood I spill to appease them
    We swing senselessly as if we are spiteful enemies
    But when the bell rings we embrace each other as brothers.
    This is our nightly ritual
    We toil in these lands scattered
    But when night comes these woes melt away as we gather
    In cellars, roof tops, and backyards
    Anywhere we can find.
    These places are always known as home by these people
    By the pungent stench of dried blood
    And the heat from the bodies of those packed in tight the night before
    That hangs in the air and mingles.