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

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

Snow drifts through the doorway
like it knows the way you came.
The candles flicker sideways—
whispering your name.

Every year on this frozen night
a shadow stirs the air.
I feel you in the quiet,
in the cold that isn’t there.
Your footsteps leave no marking,
yet they echo through the hall—
A memory dressed in silver
that answers when I call.

December holds its breath for you,
and so do I again.

Winter ghosts return to me
on nights the world is still.
You brush the frost along my skin—
a warmth I shouldn’t feel.
Though time has taken all we were,
your silhouette remains.
Winter ghosts come back to me
when Christmas calls your name.

The fire cracks in silence
like it’s frightened of the cold.
Your hand moves through the shadows—
a story half retold.
I see the life we dreamed of
in the frost upon the floor,
A world that held forever
but could not hold you more.

December weaves your outline
in the snow outside the pane.

Winter ghosts return to me,
the night you always choose.
You trace the edge of memory
like a song I thought I’d lose.
The world may turn to white again,
but nothing feels the same.
Winter ghosts come back to me
when Christmas speaks your name.

If only for a moment,
I feel your breath collide
with the cold that shrouds my heartbeat—
the years we can’t divide.
And though you fade at sunrise,
you never truly part—
Your echo burns like candlelight
unbroken in my heart.

Winter ghosts return to me
where night and silence meet.
You gather in the shadows
with the snow beneath our feet.
And though the world forgets your face,
I’ll hold you just the same.
Winter ghosts come back to me—
I whisper soft… your name.

Still you come…
still I wait.

Winter Ghosts

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

Winter Ghosts

Crimson Ashes

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