Teksty: Woe Of Tyrants. Creatures Of The Mire.

There is no foothold here in these miry depths;
Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone.
Frantic laughter bubbling throughout.
Voice strained from screaming, parched and shrill.
With each breath comes an influx of my waste.
Beasts sovereign; circling, searching for their feast.
Their mouths foaming, sensing blood in the dirty water.
It's the primal craving which prevails disgust.
But how did I get here?
The first of oh so many questions.
Delayed are the angel's melodies, ensnared in this bog.
But this place is familiar.
The sites, the sounds, the face of the beast.
Breathing mirrors reflecting me,
I share in their needs.
The absence of love, abundance of filth.
Left to consider the familiarity of my despair.
Deprived innocence, I am deserving of this place.
Entitlement, I have what I've chosen.
The virgin weeping, blackened eyes dripping contempt.
Actions and disgraces, I have many faces here.
The frowning masks of the tragedy, many faces here...
With one final glare my head slips under the mud.
I reach, still finding nothing which
I can grab to reach the surface again.
Dimming into dark is the heart that fades away,
I sink into the darkest deep.
Finally I give in to the hands touch,
Embracing what they say.
I submit to the nightmare of the mire,
Finding solace in the choice
To fall into breathing depths...depths...depths...
There is no foothold here in these miry depths;
Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone.
Frantic laughter bubbling throughout.
Voice strained from screaming, parched and shrill.