Guest
Broken trachea and the oxygen spirals out of control and far too soon Sail the seas on empty ships, searching for treasure long lost in centuries of old, eclipsed No gold can replace friends that turn to demons and decay before our wearied eyes Yes, I am a prick - no disguising my demise, and I'd turn in less than a second to jab out those dark, accusing eyes, not even flinch to end the existence of flowers wilting in the garden A dead bed of roses at your feet Walk over the edge For game, I suppose So close and yet so far Away with simple atrocities that benefit only those who turn their backs on life's seasoned indulgences Wilted time clock arrangements in unproclaimed disarray Ding dong, the bitch is dead along with the rest of those, oh, so familiar faces, traces of my distaste For reason still linger Don't point that arthritic finger at me, you unwholesome clod I don't run in those clouded areas of green dread Fierce jaundice and flaking skin, the flesh unwoven and brought to an all time low This separ
