I know not of happiness nor do I of life.
These thoughts, they strife.
I fathom these demons,
On my lonesome soul they feast!
Of course To you it might not mean much,
but to me It's got quite the wounding touch...
I know not of faith nor do I of hope.
It's of this I fail to cope.
I sense my tears,
I pray for someone who will care!
Yet to you it might not mean much,
however, to me, It's got quite the chilling touch...
I know not of family nor do I of love.
I've not once dreamt of a precious dove.
I fall to my knees,
I cough of blood,
I sink once more into this dreadful state.
It's this life of which I hate!
Depite this, to you, it might not mean much,
but to me It's got quite the dreary touch...
I am death.
I know not of temptation nor do I of revelation.
I come as a crow, and I come with life's cessation.
I choose you,
I kill you,
From life to death, from light to darkness I take you.
From here you won't be born anew.
To you this will mean much,
This time, you'll be the one feeling this dreadful touch...
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