| This storm, unquelled by darkest poison a treason of the mind, no rhyme or reason to be found, only mines exploding without sound, divine forms I chisel round, grind down to the ground This fight, mired by the fire Blood of life coats; wire cuts words into notes, spire sharp points swirl, and I beget this girl, this dire war of worlds This rage, veins coarse red pulsate, blood of life's bread abate, fever burns the bed irate, flesh flails ahead farther than fate |
| Storm |