Wax Chanting

Rooting for gems in the devils left hand trapped in a flesh cage, there's no escaping each etching upon the face telling tales of greed tossing aside family-making love to dead "things" greed is a fanged drug without hope of antidote say for a rope to the nape or a bullet to the soul old man sits on a throne made from bones of regret pinching out the last candle without family or friend wax dripping over a hollowed out heart, chanting... oh what could have been oh what could have been.