Is He willing, yet unable?  
Shadows rise where light should dwell.  

If He can stop the scourge of night,  
Yet falters in His might,  
Then power lost, His crown undone,  
A godless throne, a hollow sun.  

Is He able, yet cruel of heart?  
Then malice reigns where souls depart.  
If both He is, then whence the pain?  
Why tears and blood upon the plain?  

If neither strong nor willing stand,  
Why bear the name of God’s command?  
A hollow voice, a prayerless sky,  
We curse the stars that know not why.  

Evil walks where angels sleep,  
And silence falls, and shadows creep.  
Power and will, or none at all,  
We watch the world in nightfall’s thrall.  

Is He able, yet cruel of heart?  
Then malice reigns where souls depart.  
If both He is, then whence the pain?  
Why tears and blood upon the plain?  

Is He willing, yet unable?  
Is He able, yet malevolent?  
Is He both, then whence this strife?  
Is He none, then why call Him life?

Epicurus

If gods were real, I’d curse their name,  
For weaving death, for crafting pain.  

They painted life with cruel design,  
And split the hearts they should entwine.  
From tender bloom to rotting dust,  
All flesh obeys their silent lust.  

Oh, gods of hollow, gods of lies,  
I spit at heaven, sever the ties.  
Death’s cold hand, your gift, your blight,  
I walk in shadows, shun your light.  

Each fleeting friend, each whispered breath,  
Falls to the chains you forge in death.  
Your temples rise, your statues gleam,  
Yet life decays within your scheme.  

No psalm shall praise, no candle burn,  
For I will turn your gifts to urn.  
The void is kinder than your throne,  
I walk alone — forever alone.  

Oh, gods of hollow, gods of lies,  
I spit at heaven, sever the ties.  
Death’s cold hand, your gift, your blight,  
I walk in shadows, shun your light.  

If I believed, my hands would tear,  
The world you built, the cursed air.  
Your stars, your skies, your sacred breath,  
Would rot beneath my scornful death.  

If gods were real, I’d curse their name,  
For weaving death, for crafting pain.  
I walk unblessed, I walk unmade,  
Beyond your reach, beyond your shade.

If gods were real, I’d curse their name

"The Exodus" has arrived.

This is not just an album. This is a 14-track, cinematic metal manifesto.

This is the founding statement of VenoxX Productions.

"The Exodus" is the story of a rebellion—a movement built from the ground up to challenge a system built on silence. It's the sound of "Surge To Hope's" journey and "No Mercy's" grit, forged into a declaration of war. We are the underground, building our own world.

This is the sound of #creativefreedom.

To my followers here on SoundCloud: You are the heart of this movement. You've been here from day one, and you're the first to hear the full vision. Thank you for your support.

The "Exodus" is now live on all platforms. Join the uprising.

Rise to the Occasion

Vinden skriker över fjällets topp,  
Isen brister där jag står.  
I mitt hjärta brann en gång en eld,  
nu glöder askan kvar i år efter år.  
Mina steg i snön blir djupare,  
men jag går där mörkret bor—  
med is i mitt blod,  
och en glöd som aldrig dog.

Det som frös i mig  
ska resa sig igen.  
Stark av vinterns makt,  
född av nordens bränn.

Isblod rinner genom mig,  
stål av frost i varje steg jag tar.  
Stormen viskar: “Ge dig ej”—  
jag är den sista lågan som består.  
Isblod—kall men ändå fri,  
en flamma gömd i evig vintertid.

Natten faller utan nåd i mig,  
ingen värme återvänder hit.  
Men i skuggan hör jag hjärtats slag,  
tyst och trotsigt mot all tid.  
Jag har burit världens tyngsta snår,  
ändå vandrar jag som förr—  
med is i mitt blod,  
men ett hjärta som slår.

Det som frös i mig  
ska resa sig igen.  
Vintern formar mig,  
men den äger mig ej än.

Isblod rinner genom mig,  
stål av frost i varje steg jag tar.  
Stormen viskar: “Ge dig ej”—  
jag är den sista lågan som består.  
Isblod—kall men ändå fri,  
en flamma gömd i evig vintertid.

Och när vinden dör i fjärran land—  
hör jag värmen ta min hand.  
Isen spricker, himlen brister—  
jag reser mig igen, jag reser mig igen.

Isblod rinner genom mig,  
men lågans kraft är starkare än is.  
Stormen ropar: “Följ med mig”—  
jag bryter kedjor gjorda av min brist.  
Isblod—men hjärtat brinner kvar,  
jag står i vinterns rike utan svar.

Isen faller av…  
men blodet står kvar.  


ISBLOD

A gothic meditation on the erosion of humanity through mechanical perfection — where flesh and faith collapse into the hum of the machine. A symbolist vision of beauty corrupted, erotic despair, and synthetic divinity. The atmosphere is claustrophobic yet sensual, with decaying grandeur. Evokes rusted cathedrals, flickering neon altars, and the drowning pulse of digital sin

Skin of silver, eyes of wire,  
Breath replaced by static choir.  
In every pulse, the body weeps,  
Through circuits cold, the sorrow seeps.

The body electric drowns tonight,  
In neon waves of fractured light.  
Desire hums beneath the skin,  
A holy void where I begin.

Hands like prayer, but void of grace,  
Steel embraces flesh’s face.  
Heart becomes an engine’s song,  
And mercy bleeds where I belong.

The body electric drowns tonight,  
In neon waves of fractured light.  
Desire hums beneath the skin,  
A holy void where I begin.

I feel the faith unwind,  
Wires wrap around my spine.

I drown inside the glowing dark,  
No pulse remains, no holy spark.

The Body Electric Drowns

A rock project, experimenting with different styles and rock genres. Show me what you like.

ISBLOD

Crimson Ashes

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