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 never 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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