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Rush faster on the one-way lane
The answers so silent
Rysty gods in their machine-mind armours
grind our souls in the millstone of time
The deathbed harvest is a dead mans banquet
of mould ridden bread and black, poisoned wine.
And we go... our steps so silent
And we go.. our blooded trace.
the Jester Race
Calling out to the gathered masses
their answers so silent.
And we go..
Embracing the tools of the neo-wolf age
that speak of silence and silence alone
Offering the tokens, the reliced idols
to the heirs of the newly raped ground
inferior event o the transparent windows
lesser in motion and sound.
And we go..
There is no trance of me
in their altered blueprings of life.
Gala impaled on their horns and lances
the fumes from her body give chase
as the strong of blind men savour the scent,
dream-dead from Prosaic and hate.
-The jester race, In flames.