Sword Of Damocles

Woe is me/ 'Tis here in the ruins of these memories/ I hear the strings of violins...The pendulum swings/ Silhouette at the lime pit of an open grave/ These follies, I pray, die chained to a corpse/ For I, am he, a fool who has soured his own heart...Even the sun, down on the ox, smiles/ Or plough'd soil, after the face of winter has cried/ Will see the heavens bridged with rainbows...Alas, no chorus to hymn this soul/ And another guitar plucks the chords of this existence and sends ripples through the waters of bitterness/ Nay, no more upon this earth shall I try to make old bones...A noose? A razor-blade? A loaded gun? A happy undertaker/ A wreath laid on snow/ I want my epitaph to read, " He left his brains to the worms and his eyeballs to the crows!"

The End

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