Tekster: Thrice. A Subtle Dagger.

It infiltrates, insidious, it feints at love, betrays our trust in what we?ve known since we were born, the truth that?s found in all we see points to design, still our chests swell, we?ll never find true answers from a wishing well. So feed us all another lie, to still our thoughts, appease our pride so we won?t have to change the way we see, we live, we love, we die. Our lusts precede our blasphemy, our logic reads like notes from tainted autopsy. Our souls they speak of something more, but we can?t look beyond ourselves, we implore empty skies because our hearts hold room for no one else. We extend our claws to grasp at shadows of the ideals we have lost, casualties of a subtle dagger buried to the hilt in our heart, blood on our hands