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Today demons sit on their thrones plucking dirty notes
of brass mistaken for filthy crowns made of gold...

Chaos is all this conversation is.
Trust is nothing – a ringer would be better to take the bids.
Sick of the chase – my life I must live through...

Give into the grave – live to kill the pain. Hearts and masks tend to break so easily.
Playing you was really never me. Alter egos suffocate the air we need to breathe...

Hearts and masks tend to break so easily.

We flock to emptiness and invitations of mundane stress.
So look sharp and don't forget your Sunday's best.

My self, my cell, my hell. My self, my cell, my hell.
My self, my cell, my hell. Give into the grave – don't live to kill the pain.

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