Rotting Christ A Dead Poem
Focus tomorrow's horizon Sorrow means no future Cover my face With my guilty hands It's the season the trees die The birds don't sing anymore The rivers never come back Nature dies out This tragic figure Destined to hurt never heal What end can save me What good gives me an end Nothing is innocent Nothing is fair I keep wondering How did I end up like this First passion Now is lost A dramatic dead story I killed all I have My sadness is Translated into madness I spell meaningless words A poem for sorrow and death
