I have seen countless grey skies at
Morning when crippled smoke was leaving old worlds
Thorns of disapproval and deadly
Extermination were ramming my bruised temples
Since then nothing has changed but one thing
Deafening contradictions still quarter me inside brutally
Defendant at the conclave of all doubts i am
Being torn, bruised internally yet somehow reborn
But them not leaving fists exploding
With fever forged me into my mind's deceiver
Oh, how i enjoy the vicious paralysis of a death clutch!
And the motives of self-torment that seem to extinguish
Extinguish all
Observing is a form of art for some yet to posses
Glossy cobalt flow is bottomless
Guidance running red out of present experience
If one fraction feels like snapping of a neck i armor myself
Against cynical ones only to kidnap few glances along the way
We all've been made small at some point,
We pushed our warbling sentences way out of reach
I'm still being torn
It won't be long now
I'll manufacture my silent storm of tomorrow
I'll be the assassin at the conclave of my doubts