Tekst:
Chalice An Illusion To The Temporary Real

years Are the fervent hopes now lost in imperfections The emaciated soul seeks to conceptualize itself In an illusion to the temporary real Within,

Acheron How grandiose the touch will be when each caress is gone How bitter rests bereavement on the souls of those bereaved Funereal our lust, through an

My better self was always born tomorrow Though the wings of failed seraphs I would borrow As nights became obsessed with introspection The days a contravention

Never shall I love another earthborn face And I (the knave, the fool) will stay inept Condemned to forge a barren hell To deify and then dispel That

Her mind engulfed with loathsome thoughts,the devil and dismay The burden of lifes' theatre and the stage on which we play Autumnal sun, no peace upon