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To die, to live
He lay there,
six feet under and cold,
in a casket worth more than he could ever be,
on his headstone loving sentiments he's never heard,
words he's never felt
and those attending could never know him,
just cold under and alone.
All chances at forgiveness have left him,
now only a waiting claims him,
a waiting to live,
surely now they would understand him,
surely now they would share his sentiments at love
but alas, the dead do not speak.
For the dead take care of the dead,
and he's fate shall be no different.
He's love they shall never know,
his truths they will never find comfort in,
and now only the cruel loneliness of death will be his embrace,
cold under and alone.
But in the stark darkness,
a sigh of relief escapes his withering self.
Ah, freedom, freedom at last.
© Panducollections&co
six feet under and cold,
in a casket worth more than he could ever be,
on his headstone loving sentiments he's never heard,
words he's never felt
and those attending could never know him,
just cold under and alone.
All chances at forgiveness have left him,
now only a waiting claims him,
a waiting to live,
surely now they would understand him,
surely now they would share his sentiments at love
but alas, the dead do not speak.
For the dead take care of the dead,
and he's fate shall be no different.
He's love they shall never know,
his truths they will never find comfort in,
and now only the cruel loneliness of death will be his embrace,
cold under and alone.
But in the stark darkness,
a sigh of relief escapes his withering self.
Ah, freedom, freedom at last.
© Panducollections&co
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