mutilated images
it feels the same look the same
pointing at you again
can't help myself asking you how?
where is our path?
it's not an phase, it will come back again,
as soon as you forget,
what is your excuse?
the mind is a lack of existence

in time we'll heal all open wounds
still we'll remain the puppeteers
open up the doors, lock them up behind us
blended by the winter-light as the worlds collide

we'll feed the storm again, beauty stole my sight
we'll fell into the same, cycling game again
it's not an phase, bring this world to an end, it's not an phase


as the fracture strife your eye,
we enjoy our masquerade
through the days of convicted grief,
the action slowly fades,
as the countdown reach the end
and shimmering lights starts to burn,
we still remain the puppeteers,
it's too late to make a turn

we'll feed the storm again, beauty stole my sight
we'll fell into the same, cycling game again
it's not a phase, bring this world to an end, it's not an phase

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