Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

"Mirror, on the wall
Shouldst not grave pleasures be my
For if I shall see thy Will be
Grant Me the of thy tongue"

Three moondials froze in the of six
As another passed to the grasping Styx
Clutching their trinket
blew from eaves in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from the church
A fetid, dank oasis still to fool rebirth

as a stone cold altar
The castle and its
Like faerytale rose
A widow to the snow
Wherein reclined the
purring from the kill
Bathed in virgin and like the night
Alive and young and

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 like dark eyelids on
The sigh of the woods that the wind fell

a Siren weaving song
From the lilt of choking
the vengeful dead
Belong...

To the Sorceress and Her charnel
She from ebon towers at the hour of Mars
'Neath a star-inwoven sky latticed by
To unbind reins that kept in canter, despair
on melancholy, fleet to sanctuary there,
In netherglades tethered where onyx stared

Was it the of the mist
peopled the air with the prowess of absinthe?
Lost souls begging
From Gods upon forest plinths
Whose epitaphs read of to win
from despair through a holocaust of sin

In a tongue in invective rectums
Over signs and seals the sorceress
To Death, to rend the slender
That Ancient Ones rise again

As shadows
The fell
To with Her dagger
As the gabbled spells
heavy roses all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's grue
Announced two pincered

Exuding bane, came
With the stench of necrophiled
To these
Who shrank from glimpsing
That the of mating houls inclined...

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

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

As the Demon slavered foetid
And His prey away
In talons to perpetrate
The nausea of eternal
The Sorceress screaming in His
a final curse to stain
The Countess with the
That Her lord at war would be cruelly

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.