Unforgiving Years

by EXTRICATE

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1.
Jeremiad 03:05
These are unforgiving years and we shall hear the tocsin ring out over and over and over before we know peace once more. Can you not feel it in the air, the frisson of the coming storm that will tear our lives asunder? Havens of old truths shall be laid low by the howling gale of older lies, as the merciless terror of history returns for us, scourge in his right hand. Its going to happen again, its going to happen here, all the horror, the loss, torments we thought we’d never face, the light of lives forever extinguished by a flood of unresting death, enshrouding our world in the darkness of this nightmare age of disaster. These are unforgiving years above which, an orange midnight looms, lit by the endless burning torches of the approaching enemy. Do their chants not fill the air with vile myths of blood and soil, the miasma of a brutal past? And as they march on, we‘ve bowed in prayer to lifeless idols of what should be, crying unheard, as if mere words will save us from the lion’s jaws. Vae Victis, woe to the vanquished.
2.
Pious Fraud 03:05
Vanity of vanities, what is your faith but the most ravenous vanity? For it makes you so callous and cruel, so unlike he whose name you desecrate. Did he not say the peacemakers are the children of god or that love is the fulfillment of the law, and that false prophets shall be known by the fruits they bear? Thus what are you, but a bastard tilling barren fields? As you fleece your flock to cushion your throne and cast the poor from your door, the mantle of your priesthood becomes a mere disguise, for your savior said “whatsoever you do unto the least of these, that you do unto me” so remember your hands plant the crown of thorns- antichrist, these twisted works lay bare your heart. Your hands drive in the nails- antichrist, this innocent blood erodes your mask. As you butcher the dove to feather your nest while praising the prince of peace, the bells of your church become the drums of war, feltching filthy lucre from the abyss of human misery, driven by shameless greed, devoid of mercy your hands plant the crown of thorns- antichrist, these twisted works lay bare your heart. Your hands drive in the nails- antichrist, this innocent blood erodes your mask. Power is your only religion, Your scripture is a fig leaf over corruption. Mammon is the God you serve with a forked tongue that speaks only lies, you pious fraud.
3.
Behold destruction, verdant forests lie in ash toxic seas choked with waste. earth becomes a charnel house. and yet we know not what we’ve done. Here is the collapse the flashover of the human spark. Slow violence reaches critical mass. Denouement of this tragedy. For are we not the authors of our despair, architects of these gallows, weavers of our own noose, masterminds of this our doom? Mesmerized by powers we can conjure but cannot command, we’ve strived like gods to banish fear, want, pain, and death, yet this illusion veils the danger of the force that we have birthed, creating a coruscating deadly new beauty. “A candle in the dark” - yes, our luminous vision has dispelled the horrors of the primeval night, yet this radiance is no tame light, its a fire beyond our control, making of this world an inferno. All our gifts are laced with this curse: our reach far exceeds our grasp. As we strain towards the heavens, we stumble into hell, a hell of our own making. This is our hell.
4.
How dare I even raise my voice against the ills of this world when they all live in me? When the tomb of the past is opened and the ghosts of my sins return to haunt me with all of the flaws my delusive pride had tried to forget. Every virtue intertwined with twice as much vice. Every meager success bookended by failure. Each slow step forward staggers back into a dense fog of confusion, clouding my vision. I just can’t get it right, no matter how hard I try to purge this venom that flows through my veins; poisoning my heart perverting my mind, turning me into a monster even I despise. And I could try to escape this pain, to numb it with a palliative; a dose of privileged complacency offered to make what’s wrong seem right, but in that haze they would cut into me, amputating what is best in me; my will to love and my urge to fight, leaving me dismembered; less than half alive. So even as corrupt and as weak as I am it’s clear what they offer isn’t life but simply death with a different name death in a thin disguise stretched over the course of a life death one piece at a time death by a thousand cuts.

about

Recorded in the fall of 2018 by Alex Estrada at Earth Capital
Mastered by Will @ Dead Air Studios
Additional vocals on "a thousand cuts" by Adrian Castillo

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released November 7, 2018

consider yourselves warned

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