Dead They Await
Vanessa's father, he liked to be alone
Creating works of art, which he'd paint in a cottage made of stone
One day I crept inside, and I was unaware
of what I was gong to find, well the pictures they opened up my mind.
I saw sculptures of young lovers intertwined,
And on their bodies he had signed his name,
And so I left that place, with a different look upon my face.
Well I was fifteen and he had a certain charm,
The way he smiled at me and the way that he'd gently touch my arm,
And somehow we would always be alone
When it was time to take me home
And so we
Creating works of art, which he'd paint in a cottage made of stone
One day I crept inside, and I was unaware
of what I was gong to find, well the pictures they opened up my mind.
I saw sculptures of young lovers intertwined,
And on their bodies he had signed his name,
And so I left that place, with a different look upon my face.
Well I was fifteen and he had a certain charm,
The way he smiled at me and the way that he'd gently touch my arm,
And somehow we would always be alone
When it was time to take me home
And so we
The Forlorn Existence of Soul Divine
The hammer falls, breeding awe-inspiring wickedness
Ephemeral in it's regressive condemnation
Pulsating protoplasma rages upon the burning ocean
Mirroring the further mental transmigration...
The crescent moon grows old
And airy castles made of glaring starlight
Endure the utter suffering
Sparkling in this moonless winternight
The consuming parallels are broken,
Perished are the chambers of Utopia...
Sacrilegious and hidden, transenflamed and disgorged
Into portals of chaos the Space emerges...