Crippling over boundless insanity, the mind cracks open, only so it may close again.
Vessels through the brain carry anguish to the body, from toes to head a man gets deceased.
No Focus shall be achieved, as well as no Fulfillment, forever stuck in the cripts, a narrow hallway that closes in, making them bodily crushed, and their spirit in a casket.
Decaying, no substance may help, they will never be free, pursued as long as Time itself.
There is no need to think of an end, nor to find one, for there is no end.
From where did these roots come from? As now they make everything stronger, each day that passes.
Whom will make them dead? May they kill and dissect wich they didn't create? And even if done, wouldn't such roots just rise again?
