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Puzzle box of the damned
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Gothic Feigned hope lost in misery, to the comfort of your mind
The stench of rotting dreams block out the comforts of the sublime
The scortched sun has long since blinded you to the deadly grove of trees
Fruit grown fat is dangling hatred, swaying in the breeze
The cenobites have caught you, with molten lava hooks
Dragging you downward to sheol, where a thousand pains and pleasures are intwined...
Lost to the dark unknown, the damned unholy swine...
There are no flames in hell, only endless brimstone mines
But even as all hope has died, you display stigmata strikes
Satan finds this strange, because you were never crucified
Undead blood pours from a thousand wounds, that bear the marks of the Nazerine
Satan casts you out of hell, because your soul is clean
What to do with the unholy box, the lament configuration
Solving the cubed puzzle brings eternal damnation
You put it back into the fire, some future fool's treasure
Years down the line, the unfortunate fool, is asked, "Sir, what is your pleasure?"
