Mourning of the Wicked

In this shell of existence we wait

Confronted by lies our thoughts become dormant

Blind to ourselves we are guided by the feces of prophets

We swallow greed and lust until we have a false sense of life

Bathing in a stream of decay

Content in our blackened glory

Like a insect plague we destroy in an endless cycle

Our vanity is reflected in our demonic church state

This yellow metallic god worthless in it's grace

Without self-questioning we follow like slaves