Lorn - LOSST

THE ART OF DEATH

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(free) destroy lonely + ken carson type beat - „anguish“

prod. by ​⁠

Tempo: 149 BPM
Key: C Min

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#destroylonely #destroylonelytypebeat #kencarson #kencarsontypebeat

(free) destroy lonely + ken carson type beat - „anguish“

Carpathia - Lacrima (Outro)

https://lorn.bandcamp.com/album/a-d

a/d / analog to digital / music for picture 
volume 1 

selected commissions, abandoned or rejected themes and broken mantras for moving picture. largely beatless, ambient dives into tape with analog and digital synthesis, drones, dirty power and white noise. 

slow motion signal loss. 

much love to you all. 

reach out: 
info @ wednesdaysound.com

LORN - FEED THE DOGS FOR ME

Nothing Else

Lorn - Bretagne

Lorn - 2 Late

Lorn - LEFT SIDE

THE MAZE TO NOWHERE

Lorn - Upside Down Cops

DROWN THE TRAITOR WITHIN

LORN - PERFEKT DARK (reload)

LORN - THROUGH THE FIRE

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Lorn - LOSST

La Belle Dame sans Merci

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