Your cold cold heart, anything but warm,
Harbouring your hatred in a farm.
My blood in its veins freeze fast
As the arctic winds whoosh past.
You believe that rewards are handsome
As we win some and we will lose some.
Nothing brings you more pleasure than
To thump the stake right through my hand.
You're beyond redemption for
Death is just a metaphor,
You who walk amongst the living:
Yet your heart has long ceased pumping.
You'd bleed your blood for days on end
You dig your wounds, depressed; deepened.
The unseen chain around my neck
Clangs, clings yet tighter till I crack.
