Sheilding my face with my very means of survival. The very weapons abused, left to rot through to the bone, Just one foot from equaling the six below. Deaf / defeated, where peace of mind tightens it's grip among a smoldering variable. Hell. Vomiting. A few personal unnamed choruses of goodwill toward man that I have left. Dusting my finger prints. The caskets of the ill-taxed still withering in opposition, regardless of past lessons, proving the human condition and it's remains kept at my side.
Гуру Песен