The Blinding Pain

Shrill is the cry of the blinding pain, yet still i hear no weeping
where armies of hope and dreams were slain, in a land of eternal sleeping
a river of darkness flows deep in my veins, where the blood boiled dry from my heart
sorrow falls in sheets of rains, eroding my wishes apart.

Still is the lonesome tired night, as i wait for your ghost to arise
where destiny's match once struck shone bright, now stands as a beacon of lies
the clipped wings of angels and paradise birds, scatter my streets with the litter
once was the sky so heavy with words, now is the silence so bitter

Cheap is the price of the harrowed soul, yet still i see no takers
no heads that nod nor tongues that roll, just preachers of faith the forsakers
grounded by a lack of life, i long for a path to unfold
I'd walk on the blade of an upturned knife, to reach just a pavement of gold

Deep is the plea of the weary child, a son of the love you bore
his dying eyes so numb beguiled, now void of the spirit you tore
i hold my mass at dawn's back door, alone in the dark i pray
many bleak years of pain lie in store, in mourning for you i will say:

"The empty shells of broken bells, now stand so far divided
where the sight and sound of love i found, in harmony once collided"