Her lungs are black--
Insomniac
Her Love is free
She's after me
I'm up all night
My words are trite
Our will is dead
I toss in bed
We're doomed indeed
Our vice is greed
Three hearts had Lied
We're dead inside
Our pride won't mix
We conjure tricks
With words unsaid
What faith is dead?
Thus, lust is left
With minds, bereft
Had we not learned...
That Love is earned?...