HEX WEAVER

This is not a foreign feeling A blur of sight and sound Architect of my demise Curses abound (Curses abound, Curses abound) Curses abound Not a tradition of my own volition Incantations that invoke a flame I've worn these blinders for what feels like centuries Faces around the fire beckoning I find myself in a single-sided conversation again Now this feels like a jail cell (Jail cell) Another tally on the wall Carved it with my fucking fingernails Oh God absolve me of my sins I NEED ROOM TO SIN AGAIN The king of attrition The final sliver of hope that I fucking hold Wrapping me in a chokehold I know that what I seek will find me The final bridge between (the final bridge between) the seen and unseen