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I'm the scenery of vendetta |
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Mind and soul |
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I'm the shapeless victory |
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Order and suppression |
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All in the tower of the virgin |
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Triumphant in a pale gray light |
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In despire of how to deal with it |
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A sweet, turbulent intoxication |
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Rapidly I yearn to bare the mark |
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In a tragic understatement of the lions force |
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A tribe who's independence is no longer |
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Disturbed by the ragged interception of happy thorns |
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As I face the whispering |
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I answer to the master |
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A biochemical trembling |
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Voices in my head |
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And thus I appear with wakeful eyes |
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Trust insight |
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A tedious dramatic implant |
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Like swollen iron feeds itself, |
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Longing for the moon |
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Unbreakable and unborn |
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Sifting the contents of the surface |
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A ceremony of killers |
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A scorched ****ing snale |
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In postures of gold |
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That might be recognized |
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But as long as there are shelters |
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You'll always find yourself detained |
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A huge defenseless atmosphere |
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Wretched and toiled for centuries |
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Is ever so tender as long as we're alive |
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For it is with great wealth that |
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I, declare this |
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Flapping wings, tired monster |
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Ruthless in folly frames |
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Attempting gaiety upon sinister forces |
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All within, we will win... |
