Fire, fire from above your great mercy you stay lit.

Through the fire what makes the chaff, through the chaff my sorrow gleams.

Yet burn a little bit longer because the purity you seek will be held in stores of my hearts deep.

The eyes are windows of soul as you peer into my eyes you see the darkness, and a ravenous spirit haunted with emptiness.

My stygian spirit looks for the light in desolation places, and always with a restlessness going “more, more!”

Why do I wear what moths eat?

Why do I hold on tightly to what thieves will take away.

Why do I pretend that death is not knocking at the door?

Not one is going to escape the grave, and even perfect one went to grave.