Sorrow.
This righteous soul of condescending doom lingers disconsolately among the darkened masses of people.
Prayer moves and shapes the soul to a man of god.
Though I do not serve him always I do love him.
The loss of love causes me to reconcile deeper into god.
Let the end come.
Let us move toward Armageddon.
Let the flesh die and the spirit alone live.
Perhaps there will be joy for me in Valhalla.
I rise upon the silent hurricane winds casting my dark solemn existence deep into the abyss.
There is no love for me in this world.
Love has gone from my life.
Not of death, but of the stark cold refusal to reciprocate my love,
I raise my voice and fill the wasteland about me with my woe.
My sorrow joins the cry of the desolate wolf and the wail of whistling branches, an unholy chorus permeating everything in this place.
Driving me closer to death.
YEA I AM FORTUNEFULL.
By: Jeron Barclay.
This righteous soul of condescending doom lingers disconsolately among the darkened masses of people.
Prayer moves and shapes the soul to a man of god.
Though I do not serve him always I do love him.
The loss of love causes me to reconcile deeper into god.
Let the end come.
Let us move toward Armageddon.
Let the flesh die and the spirit alone live.
Perhaps there will be joy for me in Valhalla.
I rise upon the silent hurricane winds casting my dark solemn existence deep into the abyss.
There is no love for me in this world.
Love has gone from my life.
Not of death, but of the stark cold refusal to reciprocate my love,
I raise my voice and fill the wasteland about me with my woe.
My sorrow joins the cry of the desolate wolf and the wail of whistling branches, an unholy chorus permeating everything in this place.
Driving me closer to death.
YEA I AM FORTUNEFULL.
By: Jeron Barclay.
copyright Jeron Barclay 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment