The Faustian Pact

“The God who made iron grow did not need slaves."

A maniacal forge seeds the tempter and triangulates the sin, the madness and the fury. Where one abandons all hope. At a funeral for the sun; They will dement the divide. Into a world of sin, of shit - in schism - the man will seek the angel at the bottomless pit

Vanquished ground
From birth till rigor mortis
The vultures damn the hive to the wreaking hole
Descension bound
Where lust defines the order
Till the mass grave that sends the defeated man to the madhouse

And a testament to his ruin;
Absent the fruits of patient toil
He will never lick the wounds
[Like] a disease that heightens the senses
In a world of sin, of shit - but in schism -
One gets harder in time
And if destruction be our lot, be it the glory of the slaves

Vanquished ground
From birth till rigor mortis
The vultures damn the hive to the wreaking hole
Descension bound
Where lust defines the order
Voidward shines the suns of perdition

Yetzer Hara - Yetzer Hara - Yetzer Hara

Victor or vanquished
What defines loss?
Twisted in irony;
Encroaching manifest destiny
The sick divine glory
[In] infinitesimal trappings

Weaponize the ages

The Faustian pact is all that the ground may give back. And bound by it's own gaze, was lost and all that the sun made was cast on their iron graves