| <Patrons Of The Rotting Gate> page <The Rose Coil> album page |
Tri ZavetiA band of archers spew arrows through twitching twisten necks within the frigid entwinment of bone blockades, organs and muscles hanging from arterial puppet strings, in the grasp of a master who sleeps within his own shadow. Desperate, he feebly attempts to decipher the multitude of all form.The porcelain masks we speak to on trodden lattice works cyclically only project barbed and distorted outlines of souls. Assemblages of allies smile at barely disparate reflections of their own beaten and Xeroxed faces, and while sleepwalking try to conceal the barren fields of their minds by draping human like cloaks over their heads. They only silhouette the drying brook dripping down; the bare and cracked bark covered oesophagus that is desperate to cry out in anguish. Screams unheard, yearning to resonate outwards and preach to a blindfolded assembly. These attempts remain soaked to the bone, dripping in futility and only spawn raw and crimson tarnished throats. |