"The God who made iron grow did not need slaves."
A maniacal forge seeds the tempter and triangulates the sin,
The madness and the fury. Where one abandons all hope.
At a funeral for the sun; They will dement the divide.
Into a world of sin,
Of shit - in schism - the man will
Seek the angel at the bottomless pit.
Vanquished ground,
From birth till rigor mortis,
The vultures damn the hive to the wreaking hole
Descension bound,
Where lust defines the order,
Till the mass grave that sends the defeated man to the madhouse.
And a testament to his ruin;
Absent the fruits of patient toil
He will never lick the wounds
This disease heightens the senses
In a world of sin, of shit - but in schism -
One gets harder in time.
And if destruction be our lot, be it the glory of the slaves.
Vanquished ground,
From birth till rigor mortis,
The vultures damn the hive to the wreaking hole
Descension bound,
Where lust defines the order,
Voidward shines the suns of perdition.
Yetzer Hara - Yetzer Hara - Yetzer Hara
Victor or vanquished,
What defines loss?
Twisted in irony;
Encroaching manifest destiny.
The sick divine glory,
Infinitesimal trappings
Weaponize the ages.
The Faustian pact is all that the ground may give back.
And bound by it's own gaze, was lost
And all that the sun made
Was cast on their iron graves.