This Sickness Unto Death.

Ashes from the tapestries,
Dispersed upon the crimson plains.
And all descended into oblivion,

And all desecration that remains.

Emerging out from this shallow mire,
A chalice flows through my iniquity.
Thus poured onto the shadow's face -
Eclipse borne black by darkness' wake.

Then came thy pollen of winter roses...
Blooming from aurora's garden.
For coldness never twofold felt -

For I, this sickness unto death.

Buried beneath the orifice,
With screamed silence in the demon's wail,
Lies her gentle, brooding face.
Whom Decay and Blackness flushes pale.

It was secluded in this fathomless tomb.
That suffering let her presence be known.
And nothing else would ever rest aside,
Aside the seed of death now grown.

But again came thy wretched, vine of love,
Growing from romance's pit.
For emotion never twofold felt,

For I, this sickness unto death.

Wrapping all in a last resort,
A last attempt at a gasping breath.
For together, we suffered the burden kept...

Forever, this sickness unto Death.