.
.
.
.
.
Midst the crying skies,
A woe that keeps on running;
Hope it does denies.
.
'Till sleep endlessly,
A picture remains and still;
'Morrow fades slowly.
.
Soon as it devours,
No soul is pure and divine;
Wrath will thy growls.
.
To bathed ocean red,
Sing with a knife on thy hand;
Sanity is dread.
.
Hence as silence reign,
A hollow peeks and murmured;
It's time for thou bane.
A woe that keeps on running;
Hope it does denies.
.
'Till sleep endlessly,
A picture remains and still;
'Morrow fades slowly.
.
Soon as it devours,
No soul is pure and divine;
Wrath will thy growls.
.
To bathed ocean red,
Sing with a knife on thy hand;
Sanity is dread.
.
Hence as silence reign,
A hollow peeks and murmured;
It's time for thou bane.
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