A storm is brewing in my head—
my passion overflows—
the moment ceased and promptly fled
as fast as lightning glows.

The screaming thunder of my lust—
cries echo down the halls—
the resonance of dying trust
bids **** me with its calls.

My heart is not the blackest, nay!
Nor is it purest white—
nor does it shine the light of day,
nor spread the dark of night.

So why, then, should I pay the price?
I show no ill extreme—
my burning soul shan't tempt the ice
to trickle to the stream;

it shall not turn the tender heat
to cold and bitter rain;
it shall not cause the rye and wheat
to purge their precious grain;

it shall not cause intrepid tides
to cease their ebb and flow;
the forceful wind on which leaves ride
shall not desist its blow;

it shan't evoke the folk and lore
to terminate their rhyme;
but most of all, I do endure,
my sin shall not stop time.

Your lives will surely ramble on,
your tasks shall see their end;
your will for life shall not be gone
if Death, for you, shan't send;

you all will not hear angels' chants
nor hear the howl of ghouls;
nor will you watch the demons dance
'round hordes of fearless fools;

but I, my friends, if be my fate,
die at the hands of man—
yet no such angels, on this date,
had record of this plan.

I've not received a word from Death—
from God, heard no decree—
but on this day, I lose my breath;
my life be took from me.

Today, I find my body numb,
still fleeting from my soul—
my eyes are blind, my tongue is dumb
upon this gallows pole.

And if I rise to Heaven high
or find my course to Hell—
or do remain under this sky
locked in an earthly cell—

I surely shall not be perturbed;
my resolve will not disrate:
I will not waver to disturb
you who sent me to my fate.