yours be the sharp and the vile
couldn't exorcise these searing,
yet venom stakes in strangest guises
slayer of the word and stealer
A monumental reign of terrors
throats slit up to stain the target
We're food for the hounds of trauma,
prey to the crows of stress
No power left to retrieve my stolen
Filtered though the illiterate
from the cupped hands of bedlam
On account of their brightness
I made friends with the word and
went with the tide and left for
of dead instruments thrown out
The red square patterns, dragonrise
decoying from pandemonia syfometry
a disgonant note in the music of
the streak of promise in the nuclear
These whipping black tongues
aching to lick me back to life
to inject their truths within me More from Dark Tranquility