Soft is the grass at my resting place
Not far above crows sing of virulence
A void of pitch black haze surrounds me
And the melancholy in despair is blissful
I dwell amid his element
Alas he promised me her fondness, and delivered not
At exodic dawn I awaken to her absence
My course is failed
Makers, bless her
I have walked these pathways again and again
As though lost in a maze of my dreams and fears
Rarely do I have visitors in the pitch black haze
The great slumber has become real
Death has implored me to cast my final phrase
Yet I remain deaf thereto
Why, oh why, did he think my voracity boundless
Why did he presume I could not ever have enough...
I wish not for all, but one
I'm lost in a maze of hollow days
