| There is a man
|
| He stands alone
|
| There is a man
|
| He stands like stone
|
| Cruel words that make all dark tales
|
| Written, and composed by tragedy
|
| Truly, without flaw, all sung in wails
|
| Sought by the revenants of dead bliss
|
| Treasured by the poets lust for woe
|
| Alas, each time
|
| Sealed with eternity’s kiss
|
| Burned deep by the touch of first frost
|
| Withered from winters cold embrace
|
| Reflections, echoes
|
| Of all that once was lost
|
| By winds that on desperation pray
|
| From storms that churn relentlessly
|
| Emblazoned passion now swept away
|
| It unfurls here
|
| Grim fates in the making
|
| Fade and disappear
|
| Joy wrought only for breaking
|
| Seasons they come no more
|
| Reasons they matter no more
|
| Every day, same shade of grey
|
| Never to be freed
|
| With a thousand stones to weigh one down
|
| The key in front of iced-shut eyes
|
| And no where to be found
|
| Dulled by these endless pins
|
| To numb the pain
|
| No kind awakening
|
| No relief from this horrid domain
|
| Life-song torn away, gone
|
| Bereft by the damage done
|
| Lain barren and cold, frigid and old
|
| Never to be freed |