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oh, the lord loves to paintbut he best save that canvas for your technicolor criesyour damaged desires for a shell manifest in a mirrorproof vestwhere you hide from your bestand conspire to caress a malevolent messnever born, so forlorn, you conform to the cryptic confusion of youtaunting the tyranny of terrible truthsconjuring injury, with purity you jestoffending your oracle with that terrible messin your mind, losing lightcraving night's malevolent namemaiden in her voyage to seduce and to spilland to save that cursed canvas that will color your criesstripped to the surface by your tedious trialsand errorsand endingsand questions caressthe shell that i pierce through your mirrorproof vestwhy?look aroundcould you honestly sputter the delicate sound of a soul that is found?no, you breathe in and drown in the lack of the up and the downthat only the most vicious void in your veins and your voice would allowand no chain or charred rope or scarred church or cold dreamLetras de cancionescould bind you as completely as a total emptinessa mad, crippled chaos in an infinite cocoonwhere eternal damnation and bliss eclipse like the sun and the moonand a frail forever will shrivel too soonif the lightning splits the sky of the i and the youI am the marriage of minutes and cloudsDivorced in the desert of mirrors and doubtsI am the innocence in a hospital birthBelligerent like a sinner's sacrilege curseI am the doubt that puts curses awayMind over matter never mattered anywayI am the Earth that holds matter in placeI am the smog of an indifferent raceI am the politics of cleaning the airAnd I'm every lobbyist that doesn't play fairI am the law that will bind you in chainsAnd I am the bribe that will break them againI am indifference to material wealthA different indifference of a much sicker senseI am the morals that will mold sense from scratchMorals, moreover, go many years backOnce I was time when time wasn't meTame like Siddhartha rotting under a treeI am the peace of a siren strung streetDepraved like a drum that won't let itself beatRich in respect, it's the self I won't sellAnd your high hell of hoping for high hopes in hellNow these bells in my hell tell the tale of myselfThe self whose reflection it did see in a wellI'd rather wish the water to wash away my lungs than bleed out the me into the cancer of usThe you that you'd bleed is the disease of the we; they're one in the same, the you and the me From Letras Mania