Luyện nghe bài hát Twisting Further Nails

"Mirror, on the wall
Shouldst not grave be my all?
For if I see thy Will be done
Me the Witchcraft of thy tongue"

Three moondials in the shadow of six
As soul passed to the grasping Styx
Clutching their trinket
Bats blew from in a dissonant surge
Omens of corruption from within the
A fetid, dank oasis still clung to rebirth

Alone as a stone altar
The and its keep
faerytale dominion rose
A to the snow peaks
reclined the Countess
Limbs purring the kill
Bathed in virgin and like the night
Alive and young and

Was it the cry of a
That broke the thread of enchanted thoughts?
Of Her as a mere reflection
(As the moon's in narrow caught)
That opened like eyelids on
The of the woods that the wind fell upon

Like a weaving song
From the of choirs choking
Where the vengeful
Belong...

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

Was it the Kiss of the
That peopled the air with the of absinthe?
Lost souls resurrection
From Gods upon their plinths
Whose read of re-ascending to win
Remission from despair a holocaust of sin

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

As swelled
The Countess
To masturbating with Her
As the Witch spells
Cumming roses all the way to Hell
As sudden thunder's grue
Announced two pincered

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

In
(Natal trophies torn from bellies of nuns)
A demons, bewinged,
In scum, prowled their circle entry to run
An tongue upon Her vulva
Where rubies smeared to alabaster
Glittered like a in the purse of a whore
Receiving sole communion from the of christ

"If is what thou carves, foul fiend
I will yield this to thee
If thou wouldst draw a for Me
O'er lengthening of age and grief"

As the Demon foetid vows
And bore His prey
In talons itching to
The nausea of rape
The Sorceress screaming in His
Spat a final to stain
The Countess the promise
That Her lord at war be cruelly slain

And She rot.

Insane.
On the twisted of faith.