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The Faces of the Dead
I see their eyes in polished glass
Seventeen souls of ages past
Their shadows stretch, their whispers slow
I wear the faces no one knows
Sister of Shadows
Come closer, sister of shadows...
I taste your nectar on my lips
That breath you're holding
I'm already drinking it from you
Poison I Drink
Found you in a basement stairwell
Concrete walls and dying lights
Your hands tasted like cigarettes and lies
Said you'd make it worth the climb down
Soft as Flame
I see the way you shift your stance
The twitch that hides a second glance
Your voice is calm, your pulse is not
You're polished, yes—but still you rot
Phantom Limb
This gravity drags me down to the ground
Every kiss tastes like shutting down
Your touch, it pulls like undertow
I sink beneath it, soft and slow
Coward
I didn't run. I stood my ground
They fired. I stayed. I heard the sound
Don't ask me what the records claim
The dead don't get to clear their name