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Cold Death
Tell me about death
And I write it epic
In a picture, in no sutures
No restrain, I bid in fingers
To end of all coming
To the highest becoming
I kill the inner urge to see
The unseen, but view
The wet dew
In the early grave
Of my yard
On my cold hole
And I write it epic
In a picture, in no sutures
No restrain, I bid in fingers
To end of all coming
To the highest becoming
I kill the inner urge to see
The unseen, but view
The wet dew
In the early grave
Of my yard
On my cold hole
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