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• Artiste: Tempest Armada (The)
• Titre: Reprise: Iceland Spar
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oh, the lord loves to paint but he best save that canvas for your technicolor cries your damaged desires for a shell manifest in a mirrorproof vest where you hide from your best and conspire to caress a malevolent mess never born, so forlorn, you conform to the cryptic confusion of you taunting the tyranny of terrible truths conjuring injury, with purity you jest offending your oracle with that terrible mess in your mind, losing light craving night's malevolent name maiden in her voyage to seduce and to spill and to save that cursed canvas that will color your cries stripped to the surface by your tedious trials and errors and endings and questions caress the shell that i pierce through your mirrorproof vest why? look around could you honestly sputter the delicate sound of a soul that is found? no, you breathe in and drown in the lack of the up and the down that only the most vicious void in your veins and your voice would allow and no chain or charred rope or scarred church or cold dream could bind you as completely as a total emptiness a mad, crippled chaos in an infinite cocoon where eternal damnation and bliss eclipse like the sun and the moon and a frail forever will shrivel too soon if the lightning splits the sky of the i and the you I am the marriage of minutes and clouds Divorced in the desert of mirrors and doubts I am the innocence in a hospital birth Belligerent like a sinner's sacrilege curse I am the doubt that puts curses away Mind over matter never mattered anyway I am the Earth that holds matter in place I am the smog of an indifferent race I am the politics of cleaning the air And I'm every lobbyist that doesn't play fair I am the law that will bind you in chains And I am the bribe that will break them again I am indifference to material wealth A different indifference of a much sicker sense I am the morals that will mold sense from scratch Morals, moreover, go many years back Once I was time when time wasn't me Tame like Siddhartha rotting under a tree I am the peace of a siren strung street Depraved like a drum that won't let itself beat Rich in respect, it's the self I won't sell And your high hell of hoping for high hopes in hell Now these bells in my hell tell the tale of myself The self whose reflection it did see in a well I'd rather wish the water to wash away my lungs than bleed out the me into the cancer of us The you that you'd bleed is the disease of the we; they're one in the same, the you and the me