The venom of thought is sharper than swords
One word may well destinies mould
One glance or a purposeful frown may suffice
For the terminal act to unfold
The vile ones consider you overly vile
The worthless have doubt in your worth
The people entrapped in the furnace of hell
Curse you deeper yet into the earth
Your birth is your fault, your loyalty – sin
No place in this world is your home
A wanderer, thirsty, forsaken and lost
This desert you're destined to roam
As an anchor you fall and are left thus to hang
– left to hang, void of warmth and of life
Like a sun upon vacuum you'll finally set
To the bosom of slow-thawing ice
You are followed by clouds that blacken the sky
And, before they begin to ascend
Will pour down all their earnest and venomous tears
As if mourning the d**h of a friend