| I am not only a color
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| But lately 17 and 3
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| As the 11th will eventually die
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| Time is brief and never longer
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| Therefore I allow my shoulder to bury
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| And all my fingers line one by one
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| Then I can deny the black hole
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| And deeply fold in a chasity of insights
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| Next time we listen to your blood and it results in the sin of my strangled
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| sprat as half watch the loud pitch laugh in your vicinity
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| And the evilly humored temptation tarnish fruit-bearing Suicide
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| My saddle will skid no further into tomorrow
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| And in 1955 the dead will die in the infernal oblivion of my own domain
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| However, we won’t conquer like Erinnyen in page two but rather stalk our
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| soulless nature in 3 shades of grey
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| To Caress a delusion sometimes causes a peculiar presence which behaves how a
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| deeply sunken razor would sound in blood and consequently our echos let a glow
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| in the breastless Bestiarium
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| No
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| As my poisoned Shadows broke in two from the Zodiacal Light and only farther a
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| displeased death of the struggling odoring
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| Shock of a horned blade in the perfection of Animalistic Lust
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| Decorating itself in a disgusting Vesture
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| Bacchanten Climbed Icy Abysses yet, it won’t Bring Forth the tender damnation
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| Necessity to breed is blinded by the Oviparious yearn for death
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| And those not against God & Lucifer are suspicious
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| A dissolute force highhandedly requires danger
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| When Death Rings for several luckless Maids
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| Bluish Anarchy will instill over the Gates of Naked lust
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| Only an elder enrichment of the boiling-points to forgive my life
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| Will the Blasphemic Origin contribute to all the Graven Feet of the downfall |