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