Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

Three moondials in the shadow of six
As another passed to the grasping Styx
Clutching their crucifix
Bats blew eaves in a dissonant surge
Omens of from within the church
A fetid, oasis still clung to fool rebirth

as a stone cold altar
The castle and its
Like faerytale rose
A widow to the peaks
Wherein reclined the
Limbs purring the kill
in virgin white and like the night
Alive and and unfulfilled

Was it the cry of a
That broke the silver of enchanted thoughts?
Of Her life as a reflection
(As the in narrow windows caught)
That opened like dark on
The sigh of the that the wind fell upon

Like a Siren weaving
From the lilt of choking
the vengeful dead
Belong...

To the and Her charnel arts
She swept from ebon towers at the of Mars
'Neath a sky latticed by scars
To unbind reins that kept in canter, despair
Shod on melancholy, to sanctuary there,
In tethered where onyx idols stared

Was it the Kiss of the
peopled the air with the prowess of absinthe?
Lost souls begging
From Gods upon forest plinths
Whose read of re-ascending to win
Remission from despair through a of sin

In a tongue hilted in invective
Over signs and seals the prayed
To Death, to the slender veil
That Ancient Ones rise again

As swelled
The fell
To masturbating with Her
As the Witch spells
Cumming heavy all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's grue
Announced two pincered

Exuding bane, came
With the stench of necrophiled
To clandestines
Who shrank glimpsing horror
That the of mating houls inclined...

In
(Natal torn from bellies of desanctified nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, prowled circle seeking entry to run
An arctic tongue Her vulva
Where smeared to alabaster thighs
Glittered like a contract in the purse of a
Receiving sole communion from the of christ

"If blood is what carves, foul fiend
I will this witch to thee
If wouldst draw a veil for Me
O'er scars of age and grief"

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

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.