Who is to seperate my wrong from right?
It matters not all is done
My apocalypse has begun
No one knows the darkness in me
From the four corners of my heart
My incoherent art finds a start
I cannon maintain this icy steel keg of hate
My tapping opens a floodgate
Overflowing past the brim
Summoning horsemen from the rim
Pounding hoofs crack the crust
As I hack and choke on the dust
The screams of horses from the courses
Of liquid ice headed for my sun
As the sackcloth begins its run
My seas of thought boil
from the blood of plots crushed
Cold crumbled coals covet the soil
from which it first rushed
My eyes rolled to white
No separation in my wrong or right
It matters not all is done
This life is done
This life is done
