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

Alone as a stone altar
The and its keep
Like dominion rose
A widow to the peaks
Wherein reclined the
Limbs from the kill
Bathed in virgin white and like the
Alive and young and

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

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

To the Sorceress and Her charnel
She swept from ebon towers at the hour of
'Neath a sky latticed by scars
To unbind reins that kept 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 the prowess of absinthe?
souls begging resurrection
From upon their forest plinths
Whose read of re-ascending to win
Remission despair through a holocaust of sin

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

As swelled
The fell
To masturbating Her dagger
As the Witch gabbled
Cumming heavy roses all the way to
As thunder's grue harangue
two pincered worlds

Exuding bane, something
With the stench of graves
To these
Who shrank from glimpsing
That the growls of 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 rubies to alabaster thighs
Glittered like a in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole communion from the of christ

"If blood is what thou carves, foul
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 His prey away
In itching to perpetrate
The of eternal rape
The screaming in His grasp
Spat a final to stain
The Countess the promise
That Her lord at war would be slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.