| I’m the scenery of vendetta
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| Mind and soul
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| I’m the shapeless victory
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| Order and suppression
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| All in the tower of the virgin
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| Triumphant in a pale gray light
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| In despire of how to deal with it
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| A sweet, turbulent intoxication
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| Rapidly I yearn to bare the mark
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| In a tragic understatement of the lions force
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| A tribe who’s independence is no longer
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| Disturbed by the ragged interception of happy thorns
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| As I face the whispering
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| I answer to the master
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| A biochemical trembling
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| Voices in my head
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| And thus I appear with wakeful eyes
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| Trust insight
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| A tedious dramatic implant
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| Like swollen iron feeds itself
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| Longing for the moon
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| Unbreakable and unborn
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| Sifting the contents of the surface
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| A ceremony of killers
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| A scorched fucking snale
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| In postures of gold
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| That might be recognized
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| But as long as there are shelters
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| You’ll always find yourself detained
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| A huge defenseless atmosphere
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| Wretched and toiled for centuries
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| Is ever so tender as long as we’re alive
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| For it is with great wealth that I, declare this
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| Flapping wings, tired monster
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| Ruthless in folly frames
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| Attempting gaiety upon sinister forces
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| All within, we will win… |