Coup de Grace

[Othman]

Pandemonium of Stagnation

In the debauched heartbeats of secession, he who opted for perpetuating the equilibrium left of him, inhales for the last time.

The haunted distillery of a patriotic kinship compromises its last export.

Rectitude and persecution serve their motives.

The inborn seeds of indignation embark to abide for their rulers.

Condensation looms.

Consolidation to be beheaded.

59 minutes remaining

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On the uncharted lagoons of anguish, I sail with a canoe made of my sins.

[Othman]

Betrayal

Afflicted maidens of despair cater the last fragments of anticipation,

As the depraved sentries of a stilted cessation pioneer to contort with the inevitable.

Blared lands of bedlam are refractory.

Virtue is chained.

Satire of inertia forsakes the podium of carnage.

Debilitation to be cleansed.

58 minutes remaining

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On the uncharted lagoons of anguish, I sail with a canoe made of my sins.

[Othman]

Exemplars Mind

As the solitary monument of dejection bears mute witness to the inhumanity of the human creature,

Decayed fanatics of desolation bath in the rejuvenating blood of a hundred wenches.

Buried alongside a rotting mind beneath the fields of satisfaction,

The defiled hierarchy of inhibition abdicates to no avail,

In the memory of Moldy Tomb.

57 minutes remaining

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On the uncharted lagoons of anguish, I sail with a canoe made of my sins.

[Othman]

The Neophyte

Rowdy old kids rove in a dreary vestige of hallucinations,

Before their anthology of misdeeds cease at lacerating the intrinsic blue apple.

Thus, the cabal of bequest are marooned to be trampled by the ornate scythe,

Like a foul knaves scourge under the frigid winter blizzard.

56 minutes remaining

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On the uncharted lagoons of anguish, I sail with a canoe made of my sins.

[Othman]

The Acolyte

Sentinels of wind embrace the darkened midnights,

A honed blade converges to caress my heart.

Love for benediction is the will of our young knights,

Till cursed clergy are reinforced with a seal of might.

Indentation of grace charter the boulevard of anguish,

Whispers hamper the delinquent bids of a forlorn ordeal,

Despite the woe, the distorted villains retain to wish,

In the futile attempts to delude an odd and naive zeal.

55 minutes remaining

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On the uncharted lagoons of anguish, I sail with a canoe made of my sins.