The Torture Art

Down The Stairs He Walks

Towards What He Lusts For

The Grim Art on The Wall

Makes Him Want More

A Chamber Full of Hate

Carpets Made of Human Limbs

He Enjoys The Air He Breathes

He Does No Longer Grief

Into The Halls of Pain

Where Death Is The Only Art

Welcome To Those

With Their Torture Hearts

Fascinated By Brutal Deaths

He Continues His Search Alone

In The Eternal Hails of Torture

He Walks Until The Gate Is Open

He Does Not Want To Turn Back

He Has Found His Passion

While The Flowers Rot At Winter

His Mind Grows Sicker And Sicker

All The Gates of Which He Passed

Is Now Sealed In Blood

I Hope He's Found His World of Dreams

I Enjoy The Torture Art

Down The Stairs He Walks

Towards What He Lusts For

The Grim Art on The Wall

Makes Him Want More

A Chamber Full of Hate

Carpets Made of Human Limbs

He Enjoys The Air He Breathes

He Does No Longer Grief

Fascinated By Brutal Deaths

He Continues His Search Alone

In The Eternal Hails of Torture

He Walks Until The Gate Is Open

He Does Not Want To Turn Back

He Has Found His Passion

While The Flowers Rot At Winter

His Mind Grows Sicker And Sicker