DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
my grand piano the winds are howling but I'll stay here and play my grand piano; the frost gathers on the panes and the cold edges into my marrow but I will stay here and continue to play my grand piano - and when the sheet music is done and the snow has drifted against my door
Is It Love?If I hugged you,would you never let go?If I kissed you,would you cherish that moment?If I reached for your hand,would you take mine gently?If I needed a shoulder,would you let me cry on yours?If I needed to talk,would you really listen?If I needed to scream,would you do it with me?If I needed to go,would you come with me?If I fell for you,would you catch me?or just let me hit the pavement?
You Selfish BastardDrink the poisonand pretend as ifyou aren't slowly killing yourself.But that is your intentionand you've dedicated your lifeto this self-destructive path.Married to addictionand divorced from self-control,you're willing to let your body dieand force your loved ones to watchjust so you can havea night of numbness.Your death isn't going to shock anyoneif you keep down this road.
CultistOne day, we’ll worship rustand marvel how it claimedthe world of industrious metal,leaving nothing but slowingreddening struts, half-heartedangles reaching outward.We’ll dive into the wreckslooking for half-sparking wondersthat, when properly restored, gleaminto sputtering song or splittingpictures of different worldsand the faces of old Gods.
Who will perform the autopsy?There is a forest painted inscorching red, fire bloomingbeneath its dirt-caked skin,smoke skimming leavesas plumes of flame snickerbehind the tail of a doe.Coals coating tree-trunks,hungry for life, it devoursthe same way they ravaged herwhen she said 'no'.Bright eyes morph into murkinessas the inferno marches.When rust washed downher throat, she did not scream,only begged for them to stop.They do.Beneath the ash,they find her body.