| No headstone will mark our passing
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| No mourners shall pay tribute
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| No tithes to those who surrender to blackness
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| No offerings for those entombed in this barren land
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| The bells toll only within the strata of lost ages
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| Earth, death, time and sorrow our parting hymn
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| The circle has no end, our solace, no beginning
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| Peace is only found in these unheralded, desolate kingdoms
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| Withing the silence of the soils
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| Amongst the mass grave of the forgotten
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| Cemeteries forged in peat
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| A cenotaph of bog oak
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| Shivering flesh cupped in the shriveled claws of the fenland mausoleum
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| Welcomed by a womb of cold earth
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| Coiling like a foetus, I succumb to the silence
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| Amputating the senses
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| Embracing a well of oblivion
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| I yearn to dissolve into the infinite
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| Where past, present and future are bereft of meaning
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| Where each echo of my torrid material self
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| Drips slowly into a sink hole of desolation
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| Where each reflection of the flesh
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| Causes a tidal surge of misery
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| A patchwork of memories floats before my mind’s eye
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| And it is with the gratitude of a lifetime I witness them fade
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| Dissipating and drifting as morning mists
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| Eradicated for all time
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| I pray for nothingness
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| My starved will craves void
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| And in this stark cradle of dead fen-flesh
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| I have found my solace
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| I have found my reward
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| I have found release
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| I have found my blessed death |