Seaweed waves upon my hair,
an empty grave in a maggots lair.
The taste of death is what I crave.
Don't forget the pretty flowers on my grave.
I sleep under a sycamore tree,
waiting for a miracle to rescue me
My days have been out numbered,
counting every link on my chain.
My guilt will cause you pain,
for laughing at my imperfection ways.
Alive and dead in this disease body called hell.
We are now connected, in a way I'll never tell.
Now I grin at the power you can't decline.
A forever gift that will rot down your spine.
The real question in my rhyme.
Is this curse yours or mine?