Through the binomial nature of nomenclature
comes the stain of the past. It's no woner you hate her.
Through the corridors you file, being caught by denial,
and never escaping the clutches of Belial.
The past is still a dream, and no mortal hears you scream,
and the serpents still rise through the dust & the steam.
The future is still unclear, and it's still fraught with fear,
and still not a damned thing left that you can hold dear.
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