Hath Not Death Hath not the sun risen for thine over the moons waning light, doth to bloom in furrious flames so bright. Driven mad though as man shall be want to be, unto insanties forbidden yet brought wihtout to see. Give thines pleasures of soul and body in sway, yet, only to loose them as they degrade and rott away. What hath thee aford in life yet met, to cling to and covet with doubts unset. Gimmers of hopes and beliefs run wild, beguiled and charm thus as thine t'were a mere child. The flames of hell hath beseech ye, unto thous tender breast doth wither ye mayhaps be. Crimson blood run through the rivers bed, crying the sorrow of those many now dead. Parting from sorrows so warry and weighted by grief, shores morning in the sea depths open without relief. 