mutilated images 

it feels the same look the some 

pointing at you again 

can't help myself asking you how? 

where is our path? 

it's not phase, it will come back again, as soon as you forget, 

what is your excuse? 

the mind is a lack of existence 



in time we'll heal all open wounds 

still we'll remain the puppeteers 

open up the doors, lock them up behind us 

blended by the winter-light as the worlds collide 



we'll feed the storm again, beauty stole my sight 

we'll fell into the same, cycling game again 

it's not a phase, bring this world to an end, it's not a phase 



as the fracture strife your eye, we enjoy our masquerade 

through the days of convicted grief, the action slowly fades, 

as the countdown reach the end and shimmering lights starts to burn, 

we still remain the puppeteers, it's too late to make a turn 



we'll feed the storm again, beauty stole my sight 

we'll fell into the same, cycling game again 

it's not a phase, bring this world to an end, it's not a phase