vineri, 28 mai 2010

Heart Beat

Inside the darkening room
Inside this tiny black room
Between too many cluttered memories
I can hear the heartbeat
I can hear the beating of my heart

Behind the closed door
Beneath the sloping timbers
Between the dust and the dirt
I can hear the heartbeat
The beating of my heart

Above the books,
Above the magazines
Between the missing stories
I can hear the heartbeat
I can hear the beating of her heart

Beside the broken dolls
Beside the empty pram
Beyond the small, small cries
I want to hear my heartbeat
I want to hear the beating of my heart

Through the keyhole darkly
The eye of all things past
Of whom I can never become
I cannot hear my heartbeat
I cannot hear my heartbeat

Listen for a heartbeat
Listen for a heartbeat
Listen for her heartbeat

- by Cold

sâmbătă, 15 mai 2010

It's not done

Tis' not a love I feel
Nor a hatred of this way
But a sorrow for life.

For one must take this existence
And be content. One cannot borrow
Another's, for in Ether 'it is not the done thing'.

Now hatred for birthright.
For I have none, and yet
It would be that I see not

What others pretend. A world in
Green flames, souls at a loss for
'It is not the done thing'.

I mentioned a love. It is that love of
Hate, a sorrows love, that comprehension
Dismisses and rapes. And they reek of it.

Pitch white Harpies drink of my bosoms emotion.
Blackened, fallen upon a deep seated
dread that all is not seen in truth.

And no Muse does help me.
Nor a heaving Titan, nor any heathen Beast,
For I am not worthy of them.

The red sky drowns at the horizon
And a blue moon reaches down and
plucks them for the heavens.

It's a deranged feeling, I feel that
I am not realistically ordained.
Not blessed am I with a colored world.

I would wish hat these skyward Harpies
Would leave me, or bury me with them,
Or just let me alone for a day or night to
See the world through eyes that see not what I see.

Any distance under suits me best.
For I may witness through earth
A gray world, and black matted figures
May not witness my hideousness of sight.

But it will not, can not, be. I am alive.

- by Cold

The Cold Ones

A shattered soul is easy to see, with fist at hands and clenched teeth, it bounds thee. The ones who's memories invoke thee, that which causes misery. The ones who's story's are untold, the ones that wait, to simply regenerate. The ones that walk every night, and search for the one who will help with the fights. The fights to loose, the fights to win, even the fights that rage under the skin. They are considered to be cold, built strong and bold. But cravings consumed them, and with there eyes penetrating thee, you will come to see, more then there own pain and misery.

- by Cold

Bloom Again

Incredible oasis proper for seeding death
Unprotected child with lachrymal eyes
Will be their new sacrifice
Because new age looks for new sacrifices
New believers, new vassals

Rebellion of fallen, ascension
Battle will last
Till the last drop of blood

Silent night runs in vow
All smother in their own tears
In ecstasy a sinner prayers
The most faithful believers disbelieve
And narcissuses bloom again

Stop to arouse sleeping ones
Ground cracks under their feet
Only narcissuses bloom in silence
Fortune, where are you now?

Torture me until you don’t see
How red liquid leaves my body
Will you be satisfied then?

- by Cold