歌词
Man finds his future in compliments,
Another in insults.
Both beauty and brokenness waver on wording.
The meek and the mighty, the both of them crumble at it's scourge,
Still echoing carries it's curse.
What's whispering that it would have you indulging in it's kiss,
Ensnared and enchanted, indefinite groaning.
And the point of all you would say is what's piercing even you,
As you're falling upon your sword.
And it's curse.
Sow your sayings sparingly,
These hearts are fertile.
Know that complacent lips may bleed thee,
Render you regretful of your cast impressions, through these, your words.
This is ripe,
Your harvest is that of thorns
And you're constantly fashioning face from the fall of your foes