and bades me to wollow,
the melody of the fae
under neath that weeping willow.
I see beauty in the dying,
the weariness so loud in their sighing.
The cold, hard truth slowly,
that every things dying.
And death shouldn't be feared,
but I am scared.
For my sins are haunting;
like ghosts hanging around plotting,
the death of the living.
For there is no time in dreaming.
Wake up to find yourself screaming.
And maddingly do I remember,
so vivid the picture, of my death
But a statment of who we are...
and what we shall be.
Dust beneath their feet.