Album: II: The Broken Passage (2011)FlesholdNow just a ghost of his former appearance, the deity hangs by a thread. The cancer which grows and spreads in his cells. The bishop's already dead. An outcast among the waste if the world who preys on those who will seek. A dying voice, is nothing at all. His stories are broken and weak. Tearing and ripping the flesh from his bones, muscle contorting, reaching thresholds. Dissolving away his body bleeds slow. Surrounded by flames but his heart is cold. The end of the pope, it reaches his eyes. His vision it blurs, the father is blind. Injuring his touch as five turns to four. He swallows fate, a world without law. Now to his toes the illness has spread. Infects his brain, destroys all his cells. Eating his blood, the sickness sets in. Nuclear poison feeds on his skin. Praying for something to make the pain cease. The reaper grows closer, to taking the priest. Weakness restrains, nothing but pain. In death there is peace, so death he seeks. With nothin but fear, the priest digs a hole six feet under the road. He searches for it, but the world is destroyed, searches for it below. His throat starts to burn as he kneels in the ditch, hoping the reaper descends. For not even god could rebuild the world, the monarch squeezes his end. Cold steel pressing furrowed brow. The priest cries for forgiveness now. Weep as you bleed you cannot save. End existence. Fall to your grave.
