Every time I die, I realise it was just a dream,
And this curse that we call life persists in tearing at my seams,
Bereft of beauty, shorn of lustre, Eden rots with my decay,
And pretty soon these walls will crumble; we live to die another day.
And this curse that we call life persists in tearing at my seams,
Bereft of beauty, shorn of lustre, Eden rots with my decay,
And pretty soon these walls will crumble; we live to die another day.
0 comments:
Post a Comment