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• Artiste: With Dead Hands Rising
• Titre: The Black
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One more useless thought for the ones who prey on the fallen victims. Lining streets with the flood of what remains from trials and tribulations. Bringing out the dead to celebrate the hunt. Serenity has hit an all-time low. For years it gets worse. The monster has sharpened its teeth once again. No one to devour. Calloused from catharsis skin. Bound weight imperfections. Too bad for your destiny is comprised of a constant decay. This is a segue to false identity. An unknown soldier exposed inside the grave. A perseverance. without a host to blame. They control. Close my eyes. I am powerless. Thrown into a shallow grave. Heaven is a far cry from a shallow grave. As the soil begins to settle. Never again will I remain the same. Burning down all the wretches inside me. To erase. To exonerate. To provide a mold for what has broken. A device for the lifeless. A machine to accentuate the desire to live again. A perusal for violence. Cutting me from constraint. Letting go of contempt. And from this day on I will be there to see me live and die. Cutting me from constraint. Letting go of contempt. This is a segue to a false identity. An unknown soldier exposed inside the grave. They control. I close my eyes. Beneath the ground. Love defies the wood and skin. For years it gets worse. No sympathy for the dead ands the heartbroken. Beating. Pulsing. All memories remain paralyzed.