Lyrics by Bleakmage

A black dog runs across the killing field
A charred-black scythe seeking its yield
No hope of escaping, no hope to wield
Blue sky painted red, severed head

Always searching but always in vain
No hope of recovering from that kind of pain
You try to hold it, but it will not stay sane
Squeezing the dust, gone in a gust

Merciless, tender, sweet virile gender
Something to give her, sensual bender
Holocaust of burning insensible splendor
A house crumbling from within

You cannot enter again
The sin of loving a sin

Last Updated: 07-Mar-2006 19:32