That sense of disease is spreading again, dripping slowly from the faucets of vitality, oozing diligent over melting surfaces, resembling worms eating at apples.
That disease which is fault in the mind, oh that mother of deciet and maker of the vines; which snarl around this testtube of a cranium, how easily she makes us slip the divine.
But across the ragged shores of time, she speaks outwardly abiding no hesitation to crime; Her appearance is lost in a wave, a grain of sand...
She calls to us luring us deep into her subconcious, oh ode to those amorous actions kept secretly seductive; that seductive poison she lets leak stirring us mad, into our own little cauldruns, boiling us mad.
To shake and somehow break those bounds instilled causing an earthly early death, making us wish for the last breath-
Mother, the mind, I bequeath thee set us free.