Broken strings and twisted things, the song that sings inside your head. That tiresome tune, of dark and doom, the rhythm beats with heavy dread. We come, we come, the sound of drums, that bind the beast in chains cast red. And fires they burn, as the bound beast churns, as crimson drops begin to shed. A spotlit stage, for fire and rage, a cage less of body than of mind. Refined by blades, this serenade that calls of what is yet to find. We cut and bleed, not to secede, but carve the pattern so designed. In rote its cast, from first to last, the moments in a life confined. Relentless still, the beast of will, who comes to fight, who comes to win. Monstrous perhaps in tangled traps, of failures past, of what has been. What fear that sits, that one permits, before the boundaries left within. Comes crashing down, in scaled gown, her eyes glow red, goddess of sin. Seductive lies, that bind and tie, the bondage of the beast of will. Designed to drain, and drive insane, the spiraled thoughts that wont lay still. She writes in blood, the words a flood of pain dragged through with sharpened quill. Dilated eyes, she sees the prize, the broken prey, her coming kill. A tempting kiss, that will bring bliss, of steel pressed against the heart. It begs and pleads to be released, the thunderous rhythm stops and starts. A sanguine end, the bindings rend, the chains cascade and fall apart. A sweet surrender, her embrace tender, as she watches the beasts life depart.