Always get's kind of cold?
Likewise your verve and sun are cooling
Goddamn, It's getting fucking old.
I don't want to talk about the grass stains on our knees,
The solemn and my sorrow, my same stank, tired reprise.
When the visions that I see believe in nothing but the trees,
And the dog in the gutter thinks of nothing but his fleas,
I will become one with no tongue
No open casket for a mouth.
I will gasp and fall down
And there, face down in my filth,
This will die, This will die,
With the gleam of your eye,
All will be restored.
God, forgive me.
When I lay down with those full of strength
And our bitter souls reeks of hatred and despair
May we find solace in the love of God,
And that we will be consumed by the same white worms.
May we find some comfort there.
No comments:
Post a Comment