THE FUTILE PASSION
[ Words & music: Barthold ]
In the gallery of lost hopes
My soiled hands dig in the mould
In the gallery of lost hopes
Let the whorish smile seduce you
White sheets drenched
We stand as mortal shells
In this futile passion
In this sickness we all carry
Let the insects crawl you through
On this sweet and sickly day
Where all beauty lies rotting
You pass between my memories
As morality dies in my heart
On this sweet and sickly day
With bodily fluids that dry on my skin
Experience the infection I bring
I cling to you in fever and lay myself into your sea
And let the nausea wash through me
