The sky is filled with a hundred clouds,
blocking the sun, the worlds a shroud,
The light, it fights to bring you the sight,
of a hundred clouds, all aflight.
The air, it burns, cold to the touch,
(I crave the touch) of a million stars,
But we can't see them behind these clouds,
they wait for the grey, to wash away.
The clouds, they come, encroach on our land,
cover our eyes with their hands,
They won't stop coming,
they won't stop coming,
They won't stop coming, 'til nothing remains,
but a dense dense fog, and all along,
we were breathing them in, inside our lungs,
it won't be long until they overcome.
You try to cover me,
But you will not prevail in the end, (This is the end)
The grey is all I see,
But you will be laid to waste in the end, (This is the end)
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