Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

Three moondials in the shadow of six
As another soul passed to the grasping
Clutching their trinket
Bats blew from in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from the church
A fetid, dank still clung to fool rebirth

as a stone cold altar
The and its keep
Like faerytale rose
A widow to the peaks
reclined the Countess
Limbs purring the kill
Bathed in virgin white and like the
Alive and young and

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 like dark on
The of the woods that the wind fell upon

Like a Siren song
From the lilt of choirs
the vengeful dead
Belong...

To the Sorceress and Her charnel
She swept ebon towers at the hour of Mars
a star-inwoven sky latticed by scars
To unbind knotted reins kept in canter, despair
Shod on melancholy, to sanctuary there,
In netherglades tethered where onyx stared

Was it the of the mist
That peopled the air with the prowess of
Lost souls begging
From Gods upon their plinths
Whose epitaphs of re-ascending to win
from despair through a holocaust of sin

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

As swelled
The fell
To masturbating with Her
As the Witch gabbled
Cumming roses all the way to Hell
As sudden grue harangue
Announced two worlds

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

In
(Natal trophies torn from of desanctified nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, prowled their circle seeking to run
An arctic tongue Her vulva
rubies smeared to alabaster thighs
Glittered a contract in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole from the body of christ

"If blood is what thou carves, fiend
I will yield witch to thee
If thou wouldst draw a for Me
O'er lengthening of age and grief"

As the Demon slavered foetid
And bore His prey
In talons itching to
The nausea of rape
The screaming in His grasp
Spat a final curse to
The with the promise
Her lord at war would be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the nails of faith.