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