Still from Apophallacy by Bleach For The Stars

Another rip of afternoon remolds
In units of a crass, ceramic cold.
All brain song bent by this euphoric waste
This serpent calm that pisses on our taste
And peels apart our tamed tears. We grow old.

These filthy eyes design their cheap belief
And stop to crack down time with dirty teeth.
We are the pebbles flung by winter waves.
We thrust our scars through skinny light. Our graves
Lie in the mire of nothing underneath.

With minds sculpted from spit, we planted thorns
In hope of roses. Still, we were not warm.
We are the moths around a dying star.
Our blood is fallen leaves and screaming tar
And that is all, and all our dreams are torn.

• Dark Ambient
• Experimental
• Post-Industrial
• Harwich