I believe the world is yearning for pain in flames on skin a burning, as ink called art just leaves its marks, akin to coals to cinder…
[VERSE 2]
[INSTRUMENTAL]
Tats are masks of self, dilutes that fail to hear of songs gone mute, nor lyric’s tunes from mind’s deputes, as piercing pain becomes exchanged for something lost and something gained…
[VERSE 3]
Obtuse thy ruse of some confused, and welts they’ve known in times forlorn took wings of flight from things not right, in colored hues appearing bruised…
[VERSE 4]
[BRIDGE — LIFT]
I believe the world is yearning for pain in flames on skin a burning, as ink called art just leaves its marks, akin to coals to cinder…
[VERSE 5]
Yet no answers why of inks disguise to mute thy screams of proud aloud, in art on skin of inks that blend, thy story’s told of days of bold… The artful ink obscures thy pink and fails to show the truth in glow, and spates twill fade of fights crusades, obscuring world of stories perils…
[VERSE 6]
Ask of why thy children sigh in dark’s abyss of things they’d missed, or fears of riffs in moans and myths, while left alone to go get stoned and keep thy thoughts from cuts to bone… Tis’ pain and ink disgraces pink, attempts erase of mind’s descents, down slippery slope and tokes off smokes, aims body’s ruse toward life’s confused.
[BRIDGE — LIFT]
I believe the world is yearning for pain in flames on skin a burning, as ink called art just leaves its marks, akin to coals to cinder…
[BRIDGE]
On Sado’s ride some ink twill slide on backs and cracks and place to hide, in pierce of lobes and lips and brows, thy pain’s exchanged for sense refrained… Of scorching ink on pink with marks, who hides thy face in inks of dark? In lines of inked obscuring pink, what thoughts escape from mind to think?
[BRIDGE — LIFT]
As body’s time in days unwinds, what lines defines thy mind’s designs? In future years of times obscured, what things will come from ink filled tears? The answers trust will come from dust, as life unfolds and metals rust, and ink foretold of birthing bold defines thy soul as worthy?
[BREAKDOWN]
No pride can guide what’s lost inside in tumbles of thy journey, as tatted dots can’t mean a lot in Heaven’s clouds returning…
[FINAL VERSE]
What’s signed with pins of skinned revenge won’t prove to tell of glory, as pink was meant to flavor scent of hope’s inherent story. In ink from dart we claim thy part as story’s told in lines in art of kin and friends and sin’s pretense, we’ll fail to see the you in me. In lieu of clues from friends and trends, we’ll forget who gifted skin, and in the end thy “Prince of Sin” will laugh aloud with mocking crowds in view of man’s descent…
