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