Lucienne

Dead angels are our friends May the demons smile again And may our virtue be superiour Judge and jury, who's to blame And in the end it's all the same Rusty ruins with gold exterior Like quivers hung from clods of grey You're getting yourself in our way I turn the other cheek another day Lucienne Burn for me In a fire of a million degrees Break down what stands before us Genosides and Exodus Folklore of a bleeding Nazarene A paradise of parasites Moth holes in wings of white Hollow psalms of miracles unseen We are stillborn before the equinox of the Gods And shall rise from the sound of whipping rods Years we shall rise from the sound of whipping rods (the cherubs are falling, the demons are calling)