Ye dwelleth in bliss -
And make thine bed in light.
The warnings ye dismiss -
Ne'er stay in the night.
I fell into the lie -
I spoketh words of self-deceit,
End drawest e'er nigh.
I drown'd hope with fire and heat.
The moment came,
The burning of flesh,
And the suppose'd savior lame -
Meant to have a chance afresh?
A soul may hideth in cobweb,
And a heart be covered in dust -
And methinks ye hast known for so long,
As emotions now rot and rust.
John, what dost ye thinketh ye shall find?
John, own secrets I hidest, yet still ye seek.
John, come for knowledge, venom ye shall find.
John – 'Tis but a library - of dust and cobwebs.
Gramercy for reading, Godspeed, bonne chance!
