Besedila: Kill II This. Mass. Spineless.

Crumbling at the very core of my being
Dropped on my spine and now I find
My spine is made of glass

Wax veined, moth to the flame
Bones grind, dropped on my spine

Bloodstained glass in the sand
Softly slaughter the lamb
So slow, knife in my back
Remains like needle tracks

Beautiful words are seldom true
Tongue of thorns, my spine is glass

Spineglass

My spine is glass