The passions that burn less brightly, while the seasons, they turn ever more tightly
The months melt into decades borne, and less and less do I feel myself torn-
I’ve heard that a man feels his grief stronger as his end nears
But I find the weight of my sins lessen, through these redeeming years.
Honestly, though, Hell has always been the least of my fears.
Not for me, that burden, I self-impose, as I attempt to lift others, despite the life they chose
Hate is a lovely gift, as is purifying pain
Anger is a joy from which it is hard to refrain
The only way to break free is to remove this stain
And spinning here, digging this grave, I am the last person I’d ever want to save