správná volba pro všechny anachronisty, intelektuály a nedementy !
Pat a Math production
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! too punk to be metal, too metal to be punk !
grand guignol
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i hear the winds carrying screams from the west corruption which affects us all as pestilence cloaking its bloodlust beneath the veil of righteousness possession means nothing calculated repercussions is but the first act in their theatre of grand
guignol
of which you are the tragic hero but now im cutting the threats which kept my ears and eyes shut but now im cutting the strings cause i still revere whatever shred of humanity i've managed to preserve soon you all will have the blood you hunger for
empty mailbox full of doubts
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you choose your own direction where to go from out of nowhere like a summer snow starring in the mirror barely recognize the face through this distorted frame of ourselves theres no one left to blame but ourselves hate has poisoned the blood in my
veins leaving me bound in chains of unawareness our wings can no more fly our will is being torn apart our hearts true nature has been drained the last drops in the valve are drying upon the sun my efforts was useless all along you will never find whats
going on if you think theres nothing wrong i like that look on your face you really dont know what to say...
redegeneration 2102 AG
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not even god could fight the human rubbish our benefactor behind the cross a pack of lies straight to your house just a white rabbit pulled from someones hat theres profit to be had too early to leave, too late to change walls of
the earth bleed but how can you challange a perfect immortal machine notorious pathetic facade on everyones faces built of an empty gestures and false phrases and false hope is gone but faith false
first aid is not the medic
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she said - to embrace a serpent is to invite poison into your heart and now look at what you've made to yourself look at yourself scars such as in her heart would never heal to her death would only be a mercy ive seen the future and youre not in
it... let me take you to the place this gun in my hand says she'll lead the way to your grave and I could see by the dawning horror on her face behind her eyes, I could see new memories blooming and dying as if everything suddenly making sense all the
pain and conflict to this one point all the suppression of yourself when coincidence seems too convenient, I prefer to call it fate
cenote
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my essence's dragging me so low feel my hearts beating so slow theres no way to return beyond the ruins of this ancient godforsaken town king without crown remains unknown the truth is inevitable we're dead we're literary dead way of death that
celebrates the life? its a lie... our faith in destiny is all we need to prevail the truth is hard to swallow when endless ocean of false emotions is filling their lungs they perished for too long but now theyre all returning home to the place where we
belong...
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