a soft bruise / a swelling wound
a weed-growth / a glowing tomb
a swell of death / a deathly bloom
a life lived in a single room
a dim bulb light's pale hue
i know i've failed you
never-slept / nothing new
in my heart the deathswells grew
//
the embroidery's very nice
i wish to live inside the seams
until then i'll keep flickering
a light that barely gleams
a wisp of foam in the ebbing of the sea
//
i cannot say that i'm anything more
than a lavenderspore in an acrid smokewind
being blown away
smudged mascara on a rainy day
What more can you say after reading the abhorrent bio of this album that tells the vision behind it? This is the black vomit of Tchornobog: abyssal violation of your senses and pineal gland and you are not the same person after encountering this multidimensional god. 𝙅𝙤𝙚 𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙡𝙡