The Auto-Asphyxiating Hierophant

Construction of disasters
Our words not properly fixed
W̸̴̷̹̙̫̹̟͒ͩ̀ͬ̅ͫ̉̎ͬ͊͛̿͋̍̆̃ͨ́ ̧̈̃ͯͪ͊̔̄̓̏̓́ͦ͗̾ͮ̇ͬ̈́̽͠͏͎͕̤̟̼̪͇̼͍̱̱̲̮̦ ̢̨̲̮̮̲̜͙͉͔̬̜̜͖ͩ̍ͦ̆̾͌ͫ͊͛̑̉̀̉̒͘͢ͅ ̶̴̵̧̤͍͓͉̺̩̟̹̜̲̩̩̦͚̱ͯ̓̍̍ͮ͒̄̒̿ͯ͑̏̂͌ͮ͝ ̷̡̹̭̜͈̣̟̬̪͇̜ͦ̑̌̐͊̄ͨ̓ͬ̿̀͒̊ͬ̔ͮ͒͑̚ͅl̝̯̺̟͖̯̩̪̘͈̠͚̘̿̓̍́ͤ̇ͭ̂̌ͦ̓ͥ̀̕ ̖̮̘̯̦̱̹ͪ̂̊̽ͩ͌́̈ͮͨ͑̆̅̓̈́̀̕l̡̨̺̲̞̺̝̹̫͉̤̙̹̗͎̬̩̠ͩͩͦ͊̓́̕͞͞ŏ̶̧̡̩̗̣͔͔͎̰͇͚͉̘̟̱͉̖̜̤̽̎̍ͩͨ̽ͫ̏̚r̸̘̬̯̫̰̜͔͈͙̙̻͕͖̣͉̞͚͚͛̂̈̈̓ͤ̚͜͡ͅḽ̡̫̭͇̯̰̦̭͓͎̰̮̣̻ͨͫͣͬ̈͂͗͌͊̓̅͗ͨ̀̋̌̾ͪ͑ oral fixate
Is this the threshold?
Is this the threshold?
You fix a thousand poisons blended and descended
Indestructible definiteness
It's only zero charges electricity
Enough h̲̞͎͙̙͇͖̙͍̜͉͈͚̣ͯ̏ͫ͑̀ ̸̧̳̣͈̥͎̘̹̞͔̣͓̭̪̟͖̘͆̀͑̉͒ͭͩͫ͐ͧ ̸̶̜̰̲̗̪͔̘́̿̅̏ͧͭ̓͐ͭͤ̃̌̂̿͂̎͗͑̚͡ ͮͥͧ͒̄ͩ̏ͫ̃̎̄̑̑ͥͨ̽͌̈́͢͝҉̪̱͎͚͉̝̖͖̯̪ ̱̲̖͋̈́ͧͨͭ́ͪ̿͜͟ͅr̶̭̯͚̖ͦ͗͗͛ͫ̾ͣ͒͒̒̒́̚ ̴̛͖̯̳͕͎̰̦͉̦ͩ̐͑͒̆̒ͧ̎͜͢ ̗̬̖̘̱̤̳͖̝̝͎̝͉ͦͤ̌͊̈́̌̊͞͠ ̶̖͍͓̙̘̫̰͎͇͖̹̥͔̣ͮ̑̊͗ͧ͂̐̒̏̀ ̷̥̦͔͉͉̜͉̘̥̖͓͖͎̝̬̪̥ͦ̔̃̿̇̒ͮ̍̈́͑̂͒̌̊̀́ ̴̳̞͉̰̦̱̞̬̥͚̥͕̫͌̌̇̒̿͒̚͢͠c̹̗̻̖̫̼̥̮͔͓͒̅͋̍̓̾ͣ͢͞ͅͅi̅̓̾͒̀̉̀͒̽͠҉̶̪̹͙̘̙͉̻̺͉͞ͅř̢͈̝̹͕̫̼̟̲̠̝͕̫͍͖̃ͯ͌̈́ͭ̀͛ͧͣͧ̄ͬͤ͌͐̚͞͡ resistance
No action without, it seems, inaction
Making a noise to cope with this pain
I happen to be content to p̡̎͂͐̉ͤ́͛̌̾ͪ̐̒̈ͪ͊̽͠͞҉͚̜̺̹̻̤̪̥̩͎̞̻͚͈͍̼h̸̭̠͖̻͓͇̰̮̼̣̻͙̝ͥͬ̇̄̈́͞i͓̼̱̩̺̤͚͈̼̪͍̖̝͐ͥ̿̒̒̑͐͊ͤ̍͌̈́ͦͮͫͭ̽ͤ̚͘͠ ̆̂̿͟͏͖͉̰͙̺̱̝̳ ̢̓ͨ̓ͤ͊͐ͥͤͧ҉̨̺̗̮͉̗͚͇̲͟͡ ̢͉̹̖̝̬̗̳͉̝̥͓̖͇͂̏̑͒ͯ̑̊̊ͮ̿́ͬͯ̑́̕l̢̧̲̣͎̜̪̣̫̣̥̫̙̭̳ͩͧ͒̽̉ͨͥͧͪ͗ͤ͋̾̿͂̀ ̧͂̽̎̅͡͏̵͎͚̯͍̪ ̶̨̯͍̩͍̳̘̱̭͙̳͙̟̓̇̎ͤ̂̂ ̡̡̛͙̫̺͚͎̯̲̗̭̫̹̖̠̫̬̟͖̳͆̊̊̈́̆̓͂̓̍̊ͫͩ̏̒͆ș̡̟̫͍̳͈̭̥͚͎͇ͤ̆ͮ͛ͩ̓h̸͔̲̩̣͚̦͙̰̺͍̭̣̤͖̙͒͗̃̔̓͆̈̕͜͡͡ awful
It was logical but fatal
Once more the fortress of pure numbers
Confusion with a false move
It will fall soon
It will fall soon
It will fall soon
The white magic of the moon
Is the black magic of the Earth
The h̡̘̻̦͎͙̯̣̯̠͉͎̳͉̙͎̪̒̉̓ͮͯ̈͒̿͑ͣ̂́́ ̘̟̮͔̤̯̯̅̋̽ͦ͋͆̒ͭ̚͡ͅa͆̇ͯ͌̂ͯ͋ͮͭ̕͏͇̤̫͎̘̥̰͉͉̝͚̗̖̻͝ͅ ̴̵̨̢̬̝̭̳̣͈̭͎̩̲͇͕̱̰͕̮͓̭̄̓̄ͪ̇͌ͥ͊̓ͭ̽̃̍̔ͫ̚͘ͅa̸̵̋͋ͩ͑̎̎̽̏ͮ̒ͣ̾̏͠͏̖̩̱̣͙̙͈̤̙̬̫͇̝̰ ̶̡̙̼̳̠͎̯͉̞̺͎̗̬̱̝ͥ̐̾̌ͬͬ̍̌ͧ̎̿̈́ͭ͆̀̚̚̕͠l̊̊̏̈́͂̋͊͌͌̾ͦͥͦ͗ͬͮͪ͏̴͟͏͈̮̗͍̲̪͕͙͈̖p̢̢̺͓͕̩ͫ̎̒ͮ͗ͨ̐ͤ͐͋̚͘͢͝ on my hands
To what extent have we deceived ourselves as to the damage?
Being misled, mistaken by instinct
Ice temples crackle
Like c̡̳̜̲̱͙̬̊ͤ̎̈́͐ͩ̔͆͊ͩ̾̊̎ͭ̐̃ ̽̇̒̇̾̔ͯ̓́̆̈́̌̓̆҉̶̸̛͕̥͕̰͇̪̬̰̩͡p͎̠̯̺̹͉̹͈̻̭͕̬̥̰̹͉̺͕̩͌͆ͮ̔͒̅͆͗̍͊̋̽͟ ̧͔͕͍̻̯̣͈̤̼̬̞̺͈̲͓̱̜͔ͭ̔̄ͥ̾̔̐ͤ̐͊̐̐̈͑ͩͧ̾ͦ͜ ̸̛͓͙͔͙͉̣̰̗͚̣̯̹̥̥̪̼͓̞͛̌͊ͥͣ̓̓͐͗͡͠ ̶̴̴͇̥͚͕̤̬͔̺͍̮̗͖̦̿ͦ̓ͧ͌̉͂͂̀͋ͨ̆̿ͣ̐̇́ ̴̡̜̱̺̮̥̭̺̳͔̯̤̥ͦ̍̍̓̽́ͫ̎̎ ̷̩̟͎͚̫̪̮̜͎̼̯͈͇ͩ͌́ͭ̔ͮͣ̋̔ͦ̈̎ͨͦ͛̒͒̐̚rͮ͌ͧ̆̔̔ͮ̑͌ͨ̇̏͂̃̄̑̂̚͏̟͖̙͙̖̰̤̺̯͍͔̱͎̮̼̠͝t̶̩͍͚͇̞̬̮͈͈̳̖̟̙̬̩̖̒̓͐̿̃ͫ̈ͧͭ̿̋̎͟ą͖͈̗̬̦͙͕̲̗̳̘̳͈͕̘̯ͨ̄ͬ̂͆̓ͪ͒̍͒́ͪ̒̏̍ͣͬ͑͞ͅn̷̡̛̠̞̰̝̳͉͎̤̩̗̩͇͈̞̤̥ͩ̋̓̇̍̄ͪ͛ͫ͋̌̑̅̋̀ͥ̄̄͘ in the wave
And my eyes vibrate at a catgut rate
Stagger into the streets bearing after the blood-red number
The flag banner, stutter and stammer
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same
Nothing will ever be the same