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
Me the Witchcraft of thy tongue"

Three froze in the shadow of six
As another soul passed to the Styx
Clutching their crucifix
Bats blew eaves in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from within the
A fetid, dank oasis clung to fool rebirth

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

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

a Siren weaving song
From the lilt of choking
Where the vengeful
Belong...

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

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

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

As swelled
The Countess
To masturbating Her dagger
As the Witch spells
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As sudden grue harangue
Announced two pincered

Exuding bane, something
With the of necrophiled graves
To these
Who shrank from horror
That the of mating houls inclined...

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

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

As the Demon slavered foetid
And bore His away
In itching to perpetrate
The nausea of rape
The Sorceress in His grasp
Spat a final to stain
The with the promise
That Her lord at war would be slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.