Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

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

Three moondials froze in the of six
As soul passed to the grasping Styx
their trinket crucifix
Bats blew from eaves in a surge
Omens of corruption from within the
A fetid, oasis still clung to fool rebirth

as a stone cold altar
The castle and its
faerytale dominion rose
A to the snow peaks
Wherein reclined the
Limbs from the kill
Bathed in white and like the night
Alive and young and

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

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

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

Was it the of the mist
That peopled the air with the prowess of
souls begging resurrection
From Gods their forest plinths
Whose epitaphs read of to win
from despair through a holocaust of sin

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

As shadows
The Countess
To masturbating with Her
As the Witch spells
Cumming heavy all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's grue
two pincered worlds

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

In
(Natal torn from bellies of desanctified nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, their circle seeking entry to run
An arctic upon Her vulva
Where rubies 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, foul
I will yield this witch to
If thou draw a veil for Me
lengthening scars of age and grief"

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

And She rot.

Insane.
On the nails of faith.