deepundergroundpoetry.com

Undead Epiphany

A[/font]nd the violence cast's a silence.
Upon the withered world.
And the land it burn's with hate.
And the blood of boy's and girl's.

A child forged in the fire.
Into this world he is born.
No word's escape his lip's.
Instead he simply roar's.

And the hunger well's inside.
And draw's him to the chase.
And he walk's and crawl's and claw's.
Upon this barren waste.

Its not him, not his fault.
If he could he would claim.
That all he feel's in this world.
Is hatred and white hot pain.

So he bite's and he tear's.
And he break's and he rip's.
Taste the flesh, taste the blood.
And the warmth on his lip's.

So he feed's and he's done.
And still he feel's under.
And he knows that forever.
All he'll have is his hunger.

This is it, slowly dawn's.
An eternity of starvation.
Too late for sorrow and regret.
Too late for salvation.[/font]