we dance with our devils at night under the moon light

we sing with our angels in a haunting sarande

as well walk through the empty holllows of the graveyards way

we remember who we are



in the poets thought he cries a single tomented tear

while he sips his wine

with Quill in hand he writes his pain in blood

a shattered man he stops to lay his head on the cold floor



he cries more th torement to much to bare

alas a hope a light that he stares at but it fades

he leaves bleedin a blood he wrote he words in his own blood

as he reaches the door he blacks outs n dies from the blood lose he is no more



his poems still sit on the desk it readthis is my pain i wait and long for your touch

its to much i cant stay for this is my last carade

this is your bloody saranade