I stand upon the midnight mount,

The stale air is cold and crisp,

Not a single thing around,

To hear my vile, blasphemous wisps.

The Locust waits.

The Locust waits.

The ancient tome,

The yellowed pages,

Weather-worn,

From countless ages.

The Locust rests.

The Locust rests.

I set my volume on the ground,

As the chill bites at its spine,

The echoing of noise resounds,

To no-one's ears but mine.

The Locust sleeps.

The Locust sleeps.

Finally, the time has come,

For the world to see His power,

Their wits will all be frightened numb,

For it's His fateful hour.

The Locust stirs.

The Locust stirs.

My lips distort into a grin,

As I begin my chant,

Little outmatches the din,

Of my guttural, alien rant.

The Locust awakens.

The Locust awakens.

I see Him on the horizon, now,

The edge of our perception,

Physics proved wrong just by how

He is its exception.

The Locust approaches.

The Locust approaches.

He's so close I can feel his mind,

Permeating our world,

As he wanders, dumb and blind,

His gnarled, dark form curled.

The Locust is near.

The Locust is near.

I laugh as he takes me into Him,

Accept His life as mine,

I hum his deep and eerie hymn,

As mankind's final sign.

The Locust is coming.

The Locust is here.