i hear a man weeping.
As i can watch him beating, beating on the front door.
With this a smell of delight for the wich the ceder rings it right..
With a sence of morrow the taste of blood brings a quiet, quiet sorrow.
For his lost, his lost hope now he will always live alone with a dram of his blood on his lips. now lingering for the taste of his own pondering wait, for somthing that could of been done..
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment