How long have you spent at the loom,

Weaving your own funeral shroud?

The dull sound of the wood is the familiar voice,

The only one that still remains.

Like a mantra,

Guiding you forward into the insanity...

Dulling the thoughts that never change.

The sound repeats.

The memory that haunts,

Like the dead at three A.M.

Is ever present in your mind.

You push it back...

But the flood gates are open,

Wide and eternal...

The sound repeats.

Weep not for the man...

Who does not cry for your misery.

The pain caused by his hand...

And licentious nature.

Would he care?

Would anyone?

The sound repeats.

Hell is familiar.

This Hell is alive,

Like the body remains thus far,

And no Hell could compare...

Not to this one.

The sound repeats.

The symbol of a broken promise,

Which rested upon your finger...

Is removed forever and cast into the sea.

Unbeknownst to the one...

Who will break it again without a doubt

And lie again in a stranger's bed.

The sound repeats.

The vow will remain unspoken...

The purity yours to keep,

And the dress white and untarnished.

There will be no more promises.

The sound repeats.

I wonder where the new sound is coming from?

Bells and wind chimes...

Ringing in your ears,

Calling you forward to forever,

And drowning out the old noises...

Which used to bare repeating.

The sound is overpowered.


Cheeks wet with tears,

You stand and move forward to what awaits.

He will come looking.

The anticipation burns hotter as the Hell is provoked.

He will long for the familiar sight.

The sound is hesitating.

The stairwell will be a sturdy gallows...

And the sash a sufficient rope.

He will come looking indeed...

But he will not find you here.

The sound stops...