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The Snow is Red


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We are Treading Ouroboros

Hailing from the City of God, we are artful dragon-slayers.
Artists. Musicians. Designers. Videographers.
All united by the protoevangelion,
We are the feet of the King
As an Art Collective. Mr. Teeth A circle. From antiquity
Its form is ever darkened.

Unholy disc, iniquity
E'er fills its core, perversity
Its rim; abhor in full the fiendish serpent.

It ever forms, it ever eats,
The dark and light together bleed;
As everlasting, now it seems
To live to die forever.

Encircling all this mortal plane,
The slithering prince no doubt would claim
To overwhelm dispute of reign.
Yet, all true power lies in this feign;
Great, great deception.

For while the ring of darkness grows,
The rightful Monarch, near his foe
With sole uplifted, drives his blow
And mortal wound inflicts.

"Victorious!" is the King declared,
For He has walked where none would dare
And strides where none could tread.

He leads His army from the dead
Into the dragon's den.
