• the decay around the fire,
    where the shadows lurk,
    where the children cry for their moms,
    where the conversion by the sword takes on the gallows.

    in the hole of shadows and dirt,
    where the figures form,
    lisping love can only deform,
    while the living roam over the grave,
    tombstones that no one ever gave.

    it's in the hearse,
    as the willow linch the sky,
    hollowed by the feelings that lay inside,
    as the widow turns away,
    as she places the ring on her desk,
    as she cries on the phone,
    as she hangs in her room.

    its the blood in the crime scene,
    redder hasn't seemed so dark,
    and the poison,
    oozing from the cuts upon his neck.

    its the colour of the gun,
    as the soldiers are laid to rest,
    fields turned to mountains in hours,
    as the family cries,
    little johnny needed money for his college.

    the reapers cloak,
    a scythe of red decay the soul,
    as dark as onyx,
    as the choir plays tonics out of tune,
    laid to rest by the diminished sounds.

    the midnight that lays around streetlights,
    making drivers unknown of who is there,
    the moon gently shines across the sky,
    the only thing decaying the darkness from total night.

    it lays on like a plague,
    ulcers cutting man to size,
    as the children tremor and are aching,
    the flies glisten in through their eyes,
    until there is nothing left but the bones blood and tears.