they sing in a line
these people made out of a wish
like water without its fish
they're all dead
they're all dead and moaning

for a beautiful morning
and i'm tired of mourning
when i hear their voice
there's no song for this noise
the dead cannot sing
the dead do not bleed and sink
when eyes are moist

they do not drown in ink
feed clowns and blink
shaping world in their void
screaming, destroyed..

always reminding me
how little there is to live for.