There's no point in writing around in circles
Washed up words, and pallid moonbeams of sorrow.
Yet, even the blackest of hearts unite once again;
Unlocked with golden brush strokes of ancient past.
This digital elegy continues with suffering;
And how many dragons you've slain
Depends on the patchwork of the unborn tears
Which slide softly down your spine.
Human souls are wet, decayed under iron anguish,
So even if we are willing to sell them...
The devil won't accept damaged goods.
Washed up words, and pallid moonbeams of sorrow.
Yet, even the blackest of hearts unite once again;
Unlocked with golden brush strokes of ancient past.
This digital elegy continues with suffering;
And how many dragons you've slain
Depends on the patchwork of the unborn tears
Which slide softly down your spine.
Human souls are wet, decayed under iron anguish,
So even if we are willing to sell them...
The devil won't accept damaged goods.