1. |
Missing White Staircase
01:18
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Darkened halls and quiet rooms. Basement
of little light. Staircase descending, smell of
mold. Dust holds the hinges tight. The latch
rusted, painted over. Words spoken but not
heard. Words written but not read aloud.
Changes must be made to live. Atonement
and annihilation. Make human these hands.
Build again into creation.
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2. |
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Survivor’s guilt, the pain of existence. The
knob turns, the boards creak. A figure
wrapped in plastic. Face obscured. The ends
of the rope they finally meet. The smell of
burned flesh fills the air. The rotten look of
scars beyond repair. His hands, peeling and
tearing. The hands wrapped in tight plastic.
The blade sharp, its cuts deliberate. The
hinges whine. The plastic pulls. The only
conclusion? Life is cruel. That skin of pain,
those endless cries. Staring deep into the
serpent’s eyes. What is covered must
remain. What is revealed, not contained.
Plastic hands, sharp blade, show me the
way. Show me the way.
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3. |
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Plastic-wrapped face. Deep breaths, satiate.
Killer of virtue. Mask of cruel fate. The face
of menacing dread. No eyes that see. All
movement can be heard. Black gloves, sharp
blade. Hearing the scrape. Watching falling
glass. Crawling down a hall that never
seems to end. A throat made red. Footsteps
behind. Fear his designs. Deep cut, red line.
The deepest red line. If such people truly
exist, then where is God in this?
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4. |
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The desert through the void’s door. That
land of sand and rock. That place where
thirst goes to thrive. That land that time
forgot. Markers of infamy. Embarrassment
of life. Warnings from the other side. Not
that far removed. No hope, life consumed.
That place isn’t so far. It stretches beyond
the pale door. Endless miles of salt-
encrusted shores. That terrible sun upon
your back. Retracing steps through beads of
sweat. I don’t know what you hope to find.
Nothing but silence and the drip of time. In
that void.
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5. |
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Blood red, shattered mirrors. Close enough
to smell. Whites of eyes and locks of hair.
What story does the body tell? Portrait of
death, do you speak? Do you stare with
longing? Streetlights cut through shadows so
stark. Primal fear and nervous remarks. An
end to life, comes at night. Stifled screams.
Window glass, shattered panes. White
carpet, red stains. Human canvas soaked in
paint. No fate. Straight razor leads the way.
Too late. Straight razor lead the way.
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Elder Devil Fresno, California
EVERYTHING WORTH LOVING out now on Prosthetic Records.
Stephen Muir | Vocals
Jacob Lee | Guitars
Pete Ruacho | Drums, Noise
Ryan Urquidez | Bass
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