Sometimes I feel, long ago life took the last breath from me
Life itself, the grand enemy
The white bride of wretched death, did guide me through gardens grey
The fruit of which, would only fall to rot away
Amidst such vast gardens, even the sun itself doth seem so pallid
And the once glorious moon, its pallor so unhallowed
Seven statues of saddened stance
Perhaps the craft of a man still sadder
Fallen leaves of the thrice dead oak
A morbid portrayal of a once grand majesty
