Woe Of Tyrants Creatures Of The Mire
There is no foothold here in these miry depths
Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone
Frantic laughter bubbling throughout
Voice strained from screaming, parched and shrill
With each breath comes an influx of my waste
Beasts sovereign, circling, searching for their feast
Their mouths foaming, sensing blood in the dirty water
It's the primal craving which prevails disgust
But how did I get here? The first of, oh, so many questions
Delayed are the angel's melodies, ensnared in this bog
But this place is familiar, the sites, the sounds, the face of the beast
Breathing mirrors reflecting me, I share in their needs
The absence of love, abundance of filth
Left to consider the familiarity of my despair
Deprived innocence, I am deserving of this place
Entitlement, I have what I've chosen
The virgin weeping, blackened eyes dripping contempt
The frowning masks of the tragedy, many faces here
With one final glare my head slips under the mud
I reach, still finding nothing which I can grab
To reach the surface again
Dimming into dark is the heart that fades away
I sink into the darkest deep
Finally I give in to the hands' touch
Embracing what they say
I submit to the nightmare of the mire
Finding solace in the choice to fall into breathing depths
Depths, depths
There is no foothold here in these miry depths
Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone
Frantic laughter bubbling throughout
Voice strained from screaming, parched and shrill
There is no foothold here in these miry depths
Clawed fingers scraping flesh from bone
Frantic laughter bubbling throughout
