The Lost King Of The Lyre

<p>Rotten &amp; 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.</p><p>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.</p><p>So lift your wine and tear Lit the candle of despair Doomed to wander forever deep On woods where ghouls never sleep.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>May you come every year, Traveler from a pure &amp; enchanted land, With cognac and flowers on your hand To lay a black lotus on our eyes As my heart gently dies</p><p>I´ll dry my flesh on october leaves Beg seven coins for the boat of ghosts; Travel in dreams &amp; song into his decay As i rot myself day by day.</p><p>Let me fade into this soil Deep into my king´s arms Let me toil the dirt &amp; Disperse the shards of my existence.</p>