those endless echoeng sounds of pain and terror
creaking in the old cellar, coming out in the morbid night
they speak the minds of the disillusioned and disturbed
never stopping, never ceasing
relentless and infernal like the fires of discontent
that burn in the mind of the sun
and torture the sinners in hell
but sometimes a voice of beauty arises in the malestrom
and rises to speak a tale of redemption
we listen with our always almost shut
knowing that soon enough the morbid truth will be revealed
since when was optimism not a joke?
can we hope to find a truth that will not drive us insane?
maybe not, maybe we're doomed to wallow in this idiotic death trip
but either way we linger on
and in the back of the mind the orchestra plays
screaming, shouting, droning and droning and droning
that mad infernal noise
that damages the ears
yet leaves the mind devoid of pain
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