For being dead we're pretty live

Black encore

 

Slumber, serene sinisterness
And vain thine anger be,
Thou cannot capture all the mess
Thou wilt not torture me.

A woman's heart is never bare,
It may yet seem forsaken,
And pure hearts may be keenly rare
For those are mostly taken.

My very own heart is indeed
Not easily forgotten,
Though everyone doth surely treat
This heart like it is rotten.

O soberness, be granting me
The darkest nights - and so
Return my heart and all I see
Be shallow minds that grow. 

 

Serenity is taking part

Of what I used to be,
And thus I can no longer guard
What once belonged to me.