the fool stands before her tomb,yet bearing a frown and a rose.
he gathers alone,certain that the flower will serve as his mass.
wretched whore bind thine epitaph,for what once was,shall always be
discordance sooths the drowning bell,from funerals where flowers fell
a cold day bears all,but i smile for when i fall
and this scortching stone thats set before youre throne
has crowned our eyes with dirt...atoned
above me murals defiled by maddening hues
profanely etched on stellar walls...
insanity in utterance to his idol the king.
i cry.....
i walk amongst the putrid heavens
my gallery of futile hopes
i stand alone painting the sounds of my anguish
and the dirt be knee deep,tortured souls unite tonite
wretched whore by thine epitaph,enslave our eyes that bind
as melting frost we bleed,a crest of grey horizon burn
i do not weep for youre soul,for it hath been buried
