A Dirge For The Damned

A Dirge For The Damned




Endlessly he rules,
the darkness of his soul.
His torment is eternal,
with thoughts that burn like coals.

To hope he is a stranger,
master of his own demise.
The torture of his own mind,
now shows through empty eyes.

He holds the cup of sorrows,
and slowly takes a sip,
but there is no release for him,
save in death's hated grip.

He wails in despair,
with a pain that will not end.
His heart lies bleeding in his chest,
from a wound that does not mend.

He cries out for his freedom,
a life he's never known,
but freedom is a precious gift,
that he can never own.

The sun shines not upon his keep,
nor do songbirds ever sing,
and every morn he feels the bite,
of failure's bitter sting.

Lord of his own dark world,
a title he does not wish to claim,
and evermore he rules a land,
where joy shall never reign.