culture of vultures - perennial lyrics
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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