There is naught but cold
as the days grow old
and our faces become lined
but our expressions stay bold;
there is nothing but hate
where once love did accumulate
and our hearts, now stone,
are weary as we mutilate;
there is not but death
in the place of mirth,
where life once thrived:
we dare not take a breath.
And now maligned,
alone,
we live contrived.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
There is naught but cold
as the days grow old
and our faces become lined
but our expressions stay bold;
there is nothing but hate
where once love did accumulate
and our hearts, now stone,
are weary as we mutilate;
there is not but death
in the place of mirth,
where life once thrived:
we dare not take a breath.
And now maligned,
alone,
we live contrived.
