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A Map Of All Our Failures
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My Dying Bride
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I'm unaware of a response From my errant dark red soul Too deep to be spoken aloud I bury a word right in my heart Frost etched the tall windows I have been cold for a long time Borne upon winters shoulders There are wolves here, many of them I am staggered at their hatred of me I lie in complete fear I call the moths to tend me I forget the form of my sins And drained of motion, the air itself avoids me And void of notion, unable to perceive Mouth barely open, almost fearing to breathe And there is no other sound at all Just there, to the left, his shadow rose I always knew he was coming Takes the vacant chair beside me With golden hands he moved the hair from my face
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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