Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

"Mirror, on the wall
Shouldst not grave be my all?
For if I shall see thy be done
Grant Me the of thy tongue"

moondials froze in the shadow of six
As another soul passed to the grasping
their trinket crucifix
Bats blew from eaves in a dissonant
Omens of corruption from the church
A fetid, oasis still clung to fool rebirth

Alone as a cold altar
The and its keep
Like faerytale dominion
A widow to the snow
Wherein reclined the
Limbs from the kill
Bathed in virgin white and like the
Alive and and unfulfilled

Was it the cry of a
That broke the silver of enchanted thoughts?
Of Her as a mere reflection
(As the moon's in windows caught)
That opened dark eyelids on
The sigh of the woods that the fell upon

Like a Siren song
the lilt of choirs choking
Where the dead
Belong...

To the Sorceress and Her arts
She from ebon towers at the hour of Mars
'Neath a star-inwoven sky latticed by
To knotted reins that kept in canter, despair
on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there,
In netherglades tethered onyx idols stared

Was it the of the mist
That peopled the air with the of absinthe?
Lost souls begging
From Gods their forest plinths
epitaphs read of re-ascending to win
Remission from through a holocaust of sin

In a tongue hilted in rectums
Over signs and seals the sorceress
To Death, to rend the slender
That Ancient Ones might again

As swelled
The Countess
To with Her dagger
As the Witch gabbled
Cumming heavy roses all the way to
As thunder's grue harangue
two pincered worlds

Exuding bane, something
With the of necrophiled graves
To clandestines
Who shrank from glimpsing
That the growls of houls inclined...

In
(Natal trophies from bellies of desanctified nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, prowled their circle entry to run
An arctic upon Her vulva
Where rubies smeared to thighs
like a contract in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole communion the body of christ

"If is what thou carves, foul fiend
I will yield this witch to
If thou wouldst a veil for Me
lengthening scars of age and grief"

As the Demon slavered vows
And bore His prey
In itching to perpetrate
The nausea of eternal
The Sorceress screaming in His
Spat a final curse to
The Countess the promise
Her lord at war would be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.