The world is a fever, a molten orb in a cage,
And we are the grit where the floating plates meet.
Hear the grinding and groaning of a tectonic age?
It’s the sound of the marrow, the taste of the heat.
“Down in the dark deep.
Down in the deep dark.”
We delve through the iron-slicked ribs of the abyss,
Where the ancient iron refuses to bend.
Among the upheavals and melting of stones,
We hunt for the colors that never will end.
“Down in the dark deep.
Down in the deep dark.”
The purple is pulsing, a bruise on the night,
A scintillating heart in a soot-covered chest.
We are the Chroniclers, the thieves of the light,
Who find in the Dark Deep our singular rest.
“Down in the dark deep.
Down in the deep dark.”