Dead Dreams

Tangling through the vast catacombs shrouded in your heart,
Art imitates life, just as life imitates art.

And you alone are sacred, immaculate;
Dozing for solemn eons
With only your fair judgment for solace...

There is no safe place here,
Staring into a face, once held so dear,
Just reapers sewing the seeds of fear,
Not like this, not when the path is so unclear...

The truth that you obscure,
Makes the angel on my shoulder demure,
Losing touch with all once pure...

And so it is so;
With no way to ever rightly know,
It's the one thing that fills you with dread...

All of these broken dreams... are dead.

A thousand murdered martyrs
Couldn't bring them back.