| The sheep are all alone like disciples | |
| Waiting to be led into a shallow grave | |
| United in tragedy | |
| Their mouths gasp the pollution | |
| Inhaling the concept of a new tyrant | |
| Masses fan her campaign into flames | |
| Hell is not around the corner | |
| It's already here | |
| In me | |
| She paints the cicatrice beige to conceal her wretched design | |
| Flesh decides | |
| Imparting closure to all | |
| She paints the cicatrice beige | |
| Words won't fail as her elusive speech | |
| Reaches yet another pair of dead ears | |
| Sentences bear no relevance but the mortal eyes | |
| Witness a sight too exquisite to watch | |
| As she speaks | |
| The Architect | |
| Inhaling the concept of a new tyrant | |
| Masses fan her campaign into flames | |
| Hell is not around the corner | |
| It's already here | |
| She paints the cicatrice beige |
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