Texty: Inked In Blood. Lay Waste The Poets. Comatose.

Praxis is the touchtone of our thought.
Minds inform our movement making music with our actions -
we are all musicians; dancing to the beat of a thousand different drums -
combined in tribal counterpoint - until the chaos is so loud it can no longer be heard,
only felt - and these words are not spoken, but they are yelled.
All of your words have fallen to the ground.
You have sold yourself to vanity.
I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you.
But I don't believe a single tale from you.
You scream of destruction and of anarchy.
You writhe in the pain of a love once lost.
But I don't buy a word, not one word.
You sell what's true of yourself (for) vain silver.
Every last drop of your blood runs cold; (you) stale cadaver.
When did your heart last beat (you) whitewashed corpses?
Your pulse has faded - your face so pale (you) stale cadaver.
If this is oppression, your heart should be beating.
If you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding.
If this really hurts you, I should find you weeping.
I've only just met you yet, I find that your comatose conviction means nothing to me.
Choke on your glory.
I won't let you suffocate what now lives.
Art is the depth of our essence, it cannot be void of truth.
The truth of your expression has withered - your wick has become cold.
You cannot buy what's real.
You cannot buy the truth