Content to lay amongst the slurry, it irrigates your veins, A gallery of bones and lost intentions, your words will fail where broadswords sing, Down the dark decades of your pain, This will seem like a memory you could have had. Our name will be written on a thousand walls, Your world has drowned, run aground, now your name gathers only moss. It's a waste of good suffering. Your time in the sun has bled you dry, now a faint echo. Turn up the volume, but only hear the sound of razors through flesh. A fertile ground only for torment, you never reaped what was sewn.

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