This is the darkest of times,
The place that we will miss,
The birth of our lifeless crimes,
'Pon dead lips we turn to kiss.
The misanthropy, of a lost soul,
The misfortune of life,
To achieve the darkest of our goals,
And end this day in grief infested nights.
Anathema, oh this cursed hell,
Doth turn my blood to black!
Whose luck wished down the well,
Oh prudence, we have lack.
My scarlet fevor,
My delicate obsession in death,
Bring forth desires to endeavor,
For my everlasting rest.
Alas! I feel maggots feeding my skin,
Gourging on these blind useless eyes.
Bathing in my blasphomies of sin,
Six feet under your little lives.
Capable by human pain.