You feel it beating,
Memories risen out forlorn,
Your horrid sins crawling
At the beat of our old mourn.
~.•.~
But, what is it, that holds your blade?
Who is it, that rendered, you, decayed?
With whom bled sorrow,
A heart in scarlet;
To slice through our hollow,
A dagger for threat;
~'•,~
Have you fell in regret?
Or this not you should I fret?
To numb by my shadow,
A mind of tainted;
And for blinding hallow,
Wounded hatred.
~,•'~
These are the chains, which hold you within hell,
For your soul they've corrupted, and poetized your fell.
You feel them now beating,
Memories flooding out oblivion.
As thy hearts are fighting,
Their friend now in delirium.
~"•.*.•"~
You.