In A Shroud of Black
In a shroud of black my heart doth rest, It's beat ever so weary, and weak, inside of my chest, It's very essence being sapped by my pain, Pain of my own making, pain brought on by my birth, Pain brought on in spite of my mirth. I feel that my wounds could never mend, And suicide could bring my hearts beat to an end Wishing, wanting, hoping, that my life I have left, Yet, I can imagine the faces of my sons, at the news of my early death, Then my blackened heart picks up the beat, And then I realize that death means only defeat, I shall not lose this battle that I fight, I will live on to see the next night. In a shroud of black my heart doth rest, Its beat so weak and weary inside of my chest, Its very essence being sapped by my pain, Pain brought on by my birth!
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