I’m coffin in a yard of graves. Like often but now dark and strange. The cost of when I start to change, is lost wits and a heart of rage.
With practice came a new routine. A habit made for you to leave. In fact it saved the few you need, from havin to stray and loosin me.
So every night I rose to dred. And wake alive in rows of dead. Then weak and weathered I’d find my way home. To piece together the night now unknown.