Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

"Mirror, mirror on the
Shouldst not 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 to the grasping Styx
Clutching their crucifix
Bats from eaves in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from the church
A fetid, dank oasis still clung to rebirth

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

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

a Siren weaving song
From the of choirs choking
Where the dead
Belong...

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

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

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

As swelled
The fell
To masturbating with Her
As the gabbled spells
Cumming heavy roses all the way to
As sudden grue harangue
Announced two worlds

bane, something came
With the stench of necrophiled
To clandestines
Who from glimpsing horror
the growls of mating houls inclined...

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

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

As the Demon foetid vows
And His prey away
In talons itching to
The nausea of eternal
The Sorceress screaming in His
a final curse to stain
The Countess the promise
That Her lord at war would be slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.