it is time to finally wake the dead,
though sleepers rest in guilty bed's.
with eyes awake they fall asleep,
their hearts doth toil, avoiding passions ill defeat.
what's become of this called modesty?
who killed what they thought they could not keep?
as if love bought into could not be sold,
we burn the book's before the stories unfold.
who burdened this thing to the daughter's of eve,
to pursue such things that one can not see?
for long hard years their lives revolve,
like a minor chord which seems nor to resolve.
i must admit i am as guilty as they,
to this matter i have been a hard working slave.
for in the beginning it is as a dear friend,
but strike's like slow moving venom quite near the end.
wake o sleeper from shallow of graves,
though you part the memories will remain.
try as you will for you shall never escape,
love in its splendor;
and death in it's heartbreak.