Pins that ***** the night and the slight sounds that I hear,
more fears to **** the marrow from my bones.
Underneath my bed
the dead appear, another fear.
My life.

Morning comes to comfort me
the sun will rise.
'Mine eyes have see the glory'
but that's another story
and I'm bored.

Luckily, there's stored in me a
compendium of history.

The pins still *****,
I still feel sick, each time
night draws its blind on me.
I wish it would be kind to me and
somewhere in my history
it was.