The air feels cold
cannot loosen the grip from which i hold
my eyelids feel heavy
its not the sort of thing i can levy
i've lost control of my life
i should have made her my wife
i feel the burning up my spine
i can hear the sound of my breath and soul intertwine
my hands grip so tight
but no matter with how much i might
i cannot escape the brittle hands of death
so with one last breath
taking time to speculate
i accept my fate
bound to the quarters of hell
incapable of regressing the spell
living my life as i lay in a curl
pre-destined from that night i killed that girl.
 
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