Wounds

The Funeral Pyre

Compositor: Não Disponível

There isn't a word
That can explain the wounds
Dwelling beneath my skin
I loathe the mere sight of my existence
It's a bleak understanding
Between my flesh and reality
Muscle on bone
The blade slicing my skin
Irrelevant to my wounds
I cannot face the light
Disconnect with what I am
What I have become
No passion, no hope
I live not to see another day
Hoping that day grows dark
The scars have calloused the wounds