Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

Three moondials froze in the of six
As another soul passed to the grasping
Clutching trinket crucifix
Bats blew from in a dissonant surge
of corruption from within the church
A fetid, dank oasis still to fool rebirth

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

Was it the cry of a
broke 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 the wind fell upon

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

To the and Her charnel arts
She swept from ebon towers at the of Mars
'Neath a star-inwoven sky latticed by
To unbind knotted reins that in canter, despair
Shod on melancholy, fleet to there,
In netherglades tethered where onyx idols

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

In a tongue hilted in rectums
Over signs and the sorceress prayed
To Death, to rend the veil
That Ancient might rise again

As shadows
The Countess
To masturbating Her dagger
As the Witch gabbled
Cumming heavy all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's harangue
Announced two pincered

bane, something came
With the of necrophiled graves
To clandestines
Who shrank from horror
That the growls of mating inclined...

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

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

As the slavered foetid vows
And bore His away
In talons to perpetrate
The nausea of rape
The screaming in His grasp
Spat a final curse to
The Countess with the
That Her lord at war would be cruelly

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.