A slow aching, bled dry of pain. The pace of life sedates the sane. Lure me into the fury of absence, let my train of thoughts collide. In a trance of confidence, stirring up, I breathe cyanide. Drawn in my horns, a stabwound slow-dance. Holding on to a dog's fair chance. A slow aching, bled dry of pain. The pace of life sedates the sane. I myself, I am a cold element, but I contain a living flame. Fading in, fading out, last visit for a long time. While a legend lingers, we pine away, into clime. The wish is father to the thought, the thought is father to the truth. Ignite the imagination and take it far away. I grieve over things that end, nothing in line to succeed them. They become a part of the horrors I hold in my heart. Neatly pealed all layers off, searching a stain to expose, lay bare imperfection, grow aversion, then dispose. Now your self is bare, in an instant flare, if you have tears, cry elsewhere.