perennial - culture of vultures كلمات الأغنية

i hear the whispers in the shadows in the drippings of dawn

i’ve felt the rise of every catalytic climax to sp_wn

what is it to thrive in a paradox? free of the weakness of duality

doctrine. patriarchal tyranny. only sound like playful words to me

observing with glee as the offspring begs

groaking upwards for affection from me

what a pitiful being

encompassing everything

do you believe in my fantasy?

blasphemy a construct of the weak

comedy, merely amusing to me to thrust you to a broken, cold, and temporary life

worship me, reject me, you must believe in this fallacy
doomed to find nothing but an overwhelming barren strife

all we share is “i am nothing”

sifting through the dust the mortals refer to as the universe, i’ve inflicted a curse

invoking my presence on the mind of mankind, they find the need to recite and rehe_rs_ my perverse verses

repressing their urges to a blinding false light in the sky

diverting their sight to see through my eyes, hypnotized to be simplified

along with this, your nemesis is my accomplice to achieving my bliss

whispering through my lips, our hands grip, scabbing skin

as a schizophrenic, we are one

alas the veil has been sn_tched away, revealing your tarnished face

degrading your name

the only god in which i will ever seek

wouldn’t pander to the complacent and the weak

the only god in which i will ever believe

is the devil that exists inside of me

every moment of pleasure d_mned to soothe the belly of the vulture

this knowledge is torture. death, make an overture. saturation of this culture

beauty littered across a long trail, a futile roadway to paradise

the oasis is a lie, a mirage tempting the eyes, tormenting in the design

looking at this world through the eyes of a man

cursing the father of the creator with broken hands

sucked into a vaccumous silence, existing of senses nonexistent

into a plethora of cycles turning, an infinite pattern that’s consistent

every moment of pleasure d_mned to soothe the belly of the vulture

this knowledge is torture. death, make an overture. saturation of this culture

beauty littered across a long trail, a futile roadway to paradise

the oasis is a lie, a mirage tempting the eyes, tormenting in the design

how the eyes pierce like beaks, through this hollowed existence

how quickly it senses, death creeping imminent, impending meal entitlement

a daunting wake circles above a sunburned desert path

how they gather for mass, grotesquely dressed in all black, descending upon where you lie last

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