Falling from "grace", from the crumbling halls of the charlatan hordes.
Feathers burning to ashes as I sear my wings to quicken
Rising again from sulphur plains to your six feet under realm.
Grim and foul beneath my mask of
Contempt contaminates all of my being.
Sheltered by chaos in a carcass world still breathing.
What defines the
beast? The hunter or the hunted?
You've locked the cage and thrown the key
but you're standing on the wrong side of the bars.
suffer the pain of truth.
Brutishness our heritage
Cocytus our mother
Spare me of your obsolete words, do I preach for thee?
Ask of me no guidance for none was given me.
still exist but only for the mindful few
who tame the beast and burn the cross of ever-enslaving grace!