The Father Of Serpents - Tainted Blood
Tainted Blood (The Place We Call Home)
Observe the ruin with your painted-on eyes,
Ignoring below your world's demise...
You hear the void chanting "My Martyr, My King",
But that's a mere tune your dying mind sings!
You offered your hand as if I'm in confusion,
Telling it's rotting flesh is an illusion;
You tried to convince that of same blood we're painted,
Yet never you felt just how much yours is tainted.
In hands of creation you were made a freak,
You carved to your likeness our whole race unique,
All of us turned bolts in machine that you own,
"Behold now and worship this prison - your home".