The language in the dimmer rooms seems to represent its light source well.
How soft they speak and seem to be at peace with the movement of the music,
and the madness that's pulling me into this.
And the shades of the lamps are woven red.
The light it stains and consecrates,
anointing all forgotten forms that swirl and smoke and haunt this place.
The girls in gowns all nurse the dark, pulling it near to their swelling breasts,
and watch as it seeps to their hearts, and beats within their virgin chests.
And here I know seduction breeds from wanton hearts that would seduce,
and grows and spreads its vine and leaves, embracing those who might have moved.
But now remain to drink the night from vials black and thick with steam.
Such intoxicating delights would leave you drunk inside this dream.
And you watch them take the light from you.

And you find yourself on a velvet couch,
tasting the skin of a foreign girl.
Her eyes are black and wet like oil,
and she ties your hands with a string of pearls.
And you tremble like a frightened bird,
as she closes in and captures you to place you in a silver cage,
deep within her poisoned womb.
Once you're safe inside,
she might let you out to fly in circles around the room.
But it's always night and there is no moon.

And you wonder if you are alive,
and you're not sure if you want to be.
But you drank her sweat like it was wine.
And you laid with her on a bed of blue,
but it's awful sweet like the fruit she cuts and feeds to you.

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