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How fertile are your wounds?
Do they make you feel profound?
Can we exuviate the past
With the blood that we spilled?

When our guardian angels shed their wings
And buckets of piss replace the flowers once thrown our way
Do we let our faith set us alight
Or do we let it subside?

I plunged into the profane to reach the most profound
Wallowed in filth mundane to be granted truths sublime
But what seemed to be the cure
Only contorted my agony

How fertile are our wounds,
These waters about to spit out new moons?
Are they wombs in throes of giving birth
To stones cold and dead
What will the others' eyes see:
The Morning Star's kin
Or a lamb to be slain?

In blood, we are born
And in blood we become
Standing yet another trial
We succumb to the death drive

Through the opaque chasms
On a pale horse, I ride
Nursing my lacerations
I heed the call of the death drive

It's a mystery that repels
A mystery that attracts
A flash of the arcane
As spearheads pierce this flesh of mine

In blood, we are born
And in blood we become
Again and again
We succumb to the death drive

Through the opaque chasms
On pale horses, we ride
Wound after wound
We heed the call of the death drive

Lost in a blizzard,
Through the nights of the soul
And the days of the flesh
With fervor and death's pallor,
I'm wilting in the belly of damnation,
As if swallowed whole

But this myth I fed and savored
Left only scorn deep within
The narrative I found myself in
Was just a fashion of denial, a rationale of self-deceit

With life to lose and a world to win
A hero's journey turns out to be an idiot's dream
With all at stake and a world to win
Hero's journeys end up an idiot's dream

…And so it unravels

With the cracking of spines
With the bursting of lungs
With the gnashing of teeth
With an idiot's dream
With the opening of wounds
With the slaying of the lamb
With the fleeing of rats
With the blade to be thrust
Straight into Jehova's eye

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