1. |
Centuries - I
02:17
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So that needle hits her and she's dead again. A corpse drifting through the streets, her body pays her wat so she feel it flowing through her blood again. There is no life, no pulse. The vultures swarm again and circle. Patiently stalking prey. So the needle hits her so she can see again. Every wolf clothed as the sheep, teeth out, ready to drag her away from the sun. She gently grazes the feathers of death, wishing to forget. But I'll never forget every breath I felt her die. Always searching, always chasing but never finding. (love)
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2. |
Centuries - II
00:59
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She says that "every day is the same as the last. these colors never change, just the numbing black and gray, while every step is the same as the last, no matter wich way I take I'm always falling back. You see I need a reason for the air that I breathe in, to see what you see in this life that we're living. Because when everything means nothing I just need something or I'm just bones and flesh. Nothing more. Nothing less"
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3. |
Centuries - III
02:00
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Her body lays under the sun. The wolves gave up and the vulture moved in to rob, to use, to kill. But her body is numb from the warmth of the sun. "This life was never meant to be." Every word she has ever spoken haunts me. And I watch as she's dying slowly. Cold and numb, she lays watching the sun set.
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4. |
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If you spend your lifetime leaning on the arms of a ghost, you’ll never learn to stand upright with your own sense of self. “Everlasting arms,” he said, with a smile (and a gift horse you couldn’t help but stare directly in the mouth). In the land of the blind, there are no kings, yet they still clamor for a hollow dynasty. They reach for anything they can to help decipher their intuition, encrypted by the very man from whom they seek their salvation.
I’ve seen the purest sheep among you turn their backs on anything that doesn’t bring instant gratification. Blessed are the meek, because the tyrants need their whipping boy, submissive and pliant, at the bottom of the barrel. In the land of the dead, there’s nothing to perceive, yet they still toil for a sensory distraction. If idle hands do the devil’s work, the holiest of men are the monsters who destroy.
And you will know Them by Their sermons, a strangled nightingale’s song. And you will know Us by Our fruits, bruised and grey, rotted through.
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5. |
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We strive for a world without love, without happiness, without civility. Problems are still best solved by the Maxim gun, which we still have, and they still do not. You will swallow our values. We will grab you by the scruff of your neck and shove your face into the shithole that is your daily life. It’s still wrong to expect compassion from vultures. The example you arrogantly set of an ideal world remains a curse.
Our voices rise. Falsify and dominate. Unchecked aggressors. Abhorrent. Wear the mask of iron we forged for you until you fucking adore it. Die in it a better man. Die in it a real man.
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