It is deceit, it's made of lies,
it is the key to your demise.
So late it comes, to realize.
The tastes and feelings you despise.
Burn, the space in your veins never learns,
the signs having shown will return.
Too late to act so concerned...
It's dead and gone, yet so eternal.
Blessed, tempting and infernal.
Seeping outside through internal.
In your eyes I see it....
Burn, the space in your veins never learns,
the signs having shown will return.
Too late to act so concerned.
Now you're just food for worms.
It's price is right, it's time is now,
it's pulling, pushing you down.
It's everything you've never found,
it's hesitation, it is doubt.
It's made of heaven, made of love,
it's a reflection from above,
It's all of this, but not enough,
it's god's unresistable...
Bluff, the space in your veins never learns,
the signs having shown will return,
Too late to act so concerned,
Now you're just food for worms.
The space in my head that I made back when I was dead
is now approaching the horizon like a fetus through the after birth.
And now decisions left up to my discretion
bring the future further forward and the possible true.
This blood creation from the mental indignation
that had sprouted from the lack of understanding the lost,
and the choices that so frighten all the fools as fingers tighten
on the throat of clueless masses bring my soul to a buzz.
And living with this longing searching words
but falling short of a description or procession to untieable knots,
so focus anger into passion
and obsession to create is the sensation that I will,
forever, feel it burn....
