Death is a tiring hobby
For those dressed monochrome
Tiss’ final as it so denies the stone
For demons find that darkness
Is lighter then before
And hang about with sorrow
Lacing through their limbs
Bloody crosses mark their heads
Such knives that go unblessed
To stab away at lingering limitations
The world has changed found out
The tired and for bled
Shackles with no locks to find
Such hopes are non-existent
In a place of atrocities that weave
Through raveling locks of hair
Unkempt by those who found despair
Upon the copse of cursed time
Sublime as fire with cubes of ice
A simmering wasteland of corpse and dread
You who cries may well be dead
As those who hang but by a thread
To save their lives is only such a dream
One that borne nightmares from it’s fangs
Such poison so pollutes the brain
So twisted times and twisted things
All fade into a forgotten patch of gray