Lletres: Medeia. The Architect.

The sheep are all alone like disciples
Waiting to be led into a shallow grave
United in tragedy
Their mouths gasp the pollution

Inhaling the concept of a new tyrant
Masses fan her campaign into flames
Hell is not around the corner
It's already here
In me

She paints the cicatrice beige to conceal her wretched design
Flesh decides
Imparting closure to all
She paints the cicatrice beige

Words won't fail as her elusive speech

Reaches yet another pair of dead ears
Sentences bear no relevance but the mortal eyes
Witness a sight too exquisite to watch
As she speaks

The Architect

Inhaling the concept of a new tyrant
Masses fan her campaign into flames
Hell is not around the corner
It's already here

She paints the cicatrice beige