A seizing, writhing, bleeding mass of energy.
Bouncing and tripping along,
Leaking Phosphorous and oily reek
Fear is cold and real
When the bizarre reveals a face
An identifiable curse.
And the urge to kill consumes...
Not much it takes...
To become the force, the feel
The King and his court...
For the legs of a spider once quick
Now apart from the soul...
A tragedy
Still they move with a purpose; a will
Nevertheless they dry and blow away with the wind
This lyric was posted anonymously. Not yet confirmed by Book of Metal.
