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Imago Lyrics
my anguish told you
a persistent lie
the parasitic circuits that you push by wheel
were spoken to me every time
and like a charlatan
you counterfeit the vessels through flesh and time
these pacts we keep in secret
are drinking from a well that was cured by drought
my torment adores you
when my strings are tied
out of compulsion I must decimate
the sapless embryonic miles
and like a charlatan
you counterfeit the vessels through flesh and time
these pacts we keep in secret
are drinking from a well that was cured by drought
my knives are burrowed voices
twisted by the handle so they won't let go
these limps are idle creatures
extensions of a spirit that has no control
my heart is trapped inside
and I refuse to accept this throne
my night's unfolding
reads like a page of test results
this sterile codex
is missing all my life's resolve
and like a charlatan
you counterfeit the vessels through flesh and time
these pacts we keep in secret
are drinking from a well that was cured by draught
a persistent lie
the parasitic circuits that you push by wheel
were spoken to me every time
you counterfeit the vessels through flesh and time
these pacts we keep in secret
are drinking from a well that was cured by drought
when my strings are tied
out of compulsion I must decimate
the sapless embryonic miles
you counterfeit the vessels through flesh and time
these pacts we keep in secret
are drinking from a well that was cured by drought
twisted by the handle so they won't let go
extensions of a spirit that has no control
and I refuse to accept this throne
reads like a page of test results
this sterile codex
is missing all my life's resolve
you counterfeit the vessels through flesh and time
these pacts we keep in secret
are drinking from a well that was cured by draught
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Probably my favorite song off the new album.
This is one of my favourite songs. I always come back to it when I'm lost spiritually, because (and it can still be interpreted in a lot of ways) it's about those nights when you're due to realise how you can't actually do anything in this world. The only spindle of life ("the sapless embryonic miles") that you're holding onto is your heart, left to last in a corporeal cage ("My heart is trapped inside, and I refuse to accept this throne"), while you would better keep these countless thoughts to yourself, otherwise even they would lose meaning and nobody would understand you ("My knives are burrowed voices, glistened by the handles so they won't let go"). And when the night is over, you're bound to return to your usual psyche, tired, thinking back about how useless this was in the first place ("My night's unfolding, reads like a page of test results: this sterile codex is missing all my last resolve").