[Verse 1] Beneath the frost of bitter tears, She rots in silence, her warmth insincere. The art is murder, A white rose soaked in a morphine nightmare. [Verse 2] Life sneers, its cruelest jest, You barter your soul in a frozen tempest. Thoughts tremble, Fragments of whispers, venom-laced recollections. [Verse 3] Come, pull the thread, unravel the lie, Sadness sharpens, eager to slice. The blade drinks deep, carving delight, Etching shadows in flesh like a poet of night. A fragile script of sins written in black— A hymn to torment, no path back. [Bridge] I savor the sickness, Born to cradle disdain and disappointment. Open palms, cracked and dry, Begging for something to corrupt my grasp. Lies or poisoned dreams, We laugh as we toast to death’s decree. [Verse 4] Life’s cruel jest, a hollow parade, You sell yourself into the storm's charade. Thoughts convulse, Poisoned by ghosts of conversations decayed. [Outro] The art is murder. The craft is despair. The style is death. The style is death. Forever, the style is death.
