Lies materialize in the form of sighs they are just another way that the angel flies
and the lonely giant upon the mountain cries the last of his kind a distinction and demise
at the winds of time we howl and cry and the weeping of the willows is a last goodbye
destruction sweeps away the illusion of a guise that surrounds this world in a field of lies
and the turning of the tides has made me realize that it is all the same in the overseer’s eyes
though the guttering candle in the darkness dies it is just another way that the angel flies.
From the ashes it grew the shade she slew from entropy once more born anew
cold hands dig into the Maker’s brew flushed in entropic salve with embalming hue
and though we may be fleeting in the makers eyes our spirits have eternalized
they are just another way that the angel flies.