Hell belches out more black-hearted ballads
than the accord of heaven that releases
only the innocent and wafting
lofty dreamings of a population
unversed in the ways of emotion.
They simper and insipidly bow and release
delicate praises to the air as perfume... oh joyful
white roses. Sweetly sing with your monotonous harpischords.
We are the fire in the blackest midnight...
the mud that births monsoons of a terrible beauty.
We tremble lest our own fire overtake us, we are the torrents
that pain your face with every gleefull beat.
We are the dreamers of dreams.
We are lovers, burning holes in sheets of purity and
invincible morality... we scream and shiver to our toes...
oh haunting electricity.
We are intense anger... the fury of emperors untold...
we shatter our enemies into the oblivion they beg for mercy
fists bulging, contorted eyes stinging from the battle.
We are howls of bitter triumph, the sweet partakers of the
lost cause. We are brazen to the thought.
We are the aroma of sadness that arises from the blackest pit,
we are the oppression that snuffs out the candle.
We praise from the very depths of our cavernous abyss
our own masochistic knowledge... the fiery knowledge that burns us
as we consume ourselves.