The tall oak tree marks sudden death
The man whom I speak does not lay at rest there
He lies forgotten in the tomb I built with grief
Wilting Red roses for a broken spirit
And crow's gather for pools of blood
They no longer mind the taste of shame on the tempest tongue
And no one cries for vengeance
Death is that way for the lonely tortured soul  
May sympathy just die with the rest of the world?  
No one wants to answer this question, so I never ask.  
I paid my visit to the tomb with blood on my hands
I dropped the knife into the tall grass where no would find it
I would say that I'm sorry, but he can't hear me now
I tell myself, I'm going to be okay, but that is not true
I am the transformation at moonlight horrors wax poetic
But I am real
And I am not sober for this soliloquy
I am drunk with insanity