Psyclon Nine The Feeble Mind
Your flesh a shrine to my soul torn from bone dripping crimson red
Your time is now I dream of death on ready wings with nothing left
Light floods your eyes as you struggle bound in terror
Enveloped in the stench of morality
Tattered dolls found wrapped in plastic
Tortured souls freed from humanity
The feeble mind will pray to God the feeble mind will fall
