The mist comes over the mountain,
the sky bares its teeth in a grin.
Amidst and amongst the clamor and din,
the monsters beg to be let in.

The door is iron and heavy steel,
the key screams with eager zeal.
The hope that which I dared to steal,
is locked behind the stone bastille.

The castle gates have long since shut,
the air reeks of death and musk.
Up high the king begins to strut,
wine in hand and gut of glut.

Long ago we wished for more,
we cried and pleaded on the moor.
Our souls, torn up and on the floor,
washed up later on the shore.

Now my head hangs off the gate,
what a miserable death, what an awful fate.
Too much too soon, too little too late,
the light at the end of the tunnel awaits.