Tree of life, oh withered decay, by incessant
confessions of morbid dismay.
For the roots which are planted so deep in the soil
that's rich with the blood, sweat and tears of your toil.
You suffer this day for the blight of your being,
your eyes are sewn shut, recieve sight without seeing.
As I whisper this cryptic inscription that's written,
with blissful intent, that your hand should be bitten,
the sting of the serpant that's lying in wait,
for the blood of the innocent scribing your fate,
to the ledgar allegedly filled with the souls,
of the damned and forsaken, the wisest of fools.
As we tarry so carelessly, walking with death,
the lungs shall colapse, leave you gasping for breath.