Death becomes him.
In the eternal pain that resides in my soul of lost hope...
Devours my thought, my sight blinded, taste vacant...
Broken dreams springing my mind to demonic views....
I am what is spoken only as a whisper in the wind...
Dead.
A mere memory of better times, thrusted violently to the grave...
Tempted by faith, rendered my heart weak, took away my pride...
The fruit that once was ripe, now a descendant of death...
I am what is spoken only as a whisper in the wind...
Dead.
My celestial body laying abstracted on the cold desolate mist...
The soul that once was, shaken from my human form...
Depressed by torture, celibate to emotion, Who am I ?..
I am what is spoken only as a whisper in the wind...
Dead.
Dancing in the dark, alone yet caressed by love of light...
Death is a sanctum yet not my home, cleared thought...
Life continues to live as a manifestation of memory...
I am what is spoken only as a whisper in the wind...
Dead.