Behold the arctic ache of an unuttered name, A holy hunger dancing in a stagnant flame. We weave seditious whispers into fictitious scriptures, A thousand fractured pictures of our tinctured fixtures. The silence isn't vacant; no, it’s heavy with the rot, A Gordian entanglement in a lover’s knot. Your proximity is treason, a reason to rescind, Like sowing seeds of mercury into a gale-force wind. (Heh... talk about a heavy harvest.) Oh, this sanctuary is a pyre, a beautiful distress, A harmonized discord in a velvet dress! I’m a saintly sinner drinking from a poisoned well, Building a paradise within the mortar of our hell! Always reaching for the thorn, never mourning for the blood, An infinite desert drowning in a subterranean flood! Temptation is a jeweler polishing the jagged shards, Dealing out a destiny from a deck of jagged cards. You’re the paradox I ponder, the prayer I can’t profess, The "No" that’s screaming "Yes" beneath a layer of duress. It’s ironic, isn't it? The way we crave the blade, To cut the very shadows that the light of truth has made. We’re architects of anguish, building ceilings out of glass, Just to watch the gravity of our own sins pass! Sublime... Subterranean... Submission... The friction of the fiction is a beautiful affliction! I am the prisoner, the cage, and the key, Drowning in the dry land of our dark decree! Oh, this sanctuary is a pyre, a beautiful distress, A harmonized discord in a velvet dress! I’m a saintly sinner drinking from a poisoned well, Building a paradise within the mortar of our hell! Always reaching for the thorn, never mourning for the blood, An infinite desert drowning in a subterranean flood! The quiet isn't vacant... It’s just... loud.
