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