Otherworldly, pallid flesh stretched across his bones
Corpse-dust clings and flies on wing surround him
His voice a knife, tearing at the ear with steely tones
Cattle’s blood and black kohl hide his features

From Stockholm ride to Oslo
A spirit in the night
His blackened heart as cold as winter’s bite
A childhood of agony
A life lived in twilight
The man that they called Dead was dead inside

This world, a dream from which the soul cannot be freed
So it seemed among the snows of Sweden
Out among the forests, Dead could fleetingly find peace
Before the world intruded once again

In Oslo found his brothers
Descend into Helvete
Long nights they worked under a freezing moon
As one they conquered Leipzig
The underground it shook
But for Dead success was just another tomb

The intoxicating power which death holds over men
Ensnared Euronymous as it had his friend
The Norseman’s dark obsessions, twisted manipulation
Pushed Sweden’s son towards his final end

Isolation
Withdraw from sight
Inhumation
Hide from the light

Sat alone in the dark
The bright steel piercing his veins
He never felt truly alive
With a gun to his head, he blew out his brains

‘Excuse the blood, but I have slit my wrists and neck.
It was my intention that I should die in the woods...
I belong in the woods and have always done so...
To give some semblance of an explanation: I am not a human...
It was too cold...
I did not come up with this now, but seventeen years ago.