The Lost King Of The Lyre

Rotten and scarlet death
At night when I go to see him
White hair of cinnamon smell
on dusty chambers of ancient lore
Locked behind Death´s door.

The venom in his scream fills my song
As the voice fades away
The Sun sets on our hearts.
Deep down in victorian fire

I still play lost tales on his lyre.

So lift your wine and tear
Lit the candle of despair
Doomed to wander forever deep
On woods where ghouls never sleep.

May you lay a bottle of green death
at the stone of his grave,
so the flowers of evil may blossom
From our graven pain at winter.

I´d be the patron of lyre and solitude
on his castle of gravel.
I´d be the Queen of Silence,
forever a necrologic navel.

May you come every year,
Traveler from a pure and enchanted land,
With Cognac and flowers on your hand
to lay a black lotus on our eyes
As my heart gently dies

I´ll dry my flesh on October leaves
Beg seven coins for the boat of ghosts;
Travel in dreams and song into his decay
As I rot myself day by day.

Let me fade into this soil
Deep into my King´s arms
Let me toil the dirt
and disperse the shards of my existence