(Cadence of) The Dirge

onto the street proceed the hearse and limousine laying in the casket, the corpse of inner joy questioning time all hope for loving died greying haze of the autumn skies stone cold hearts retract amongst the knives within a dream that commits itself to grief resurrected by a black wreath... why? where? how? heaving sob-seizures roused by the view of true love embalmed in a box grovel, beg, plead for a sign, but never mind 'cause bliss is now a word left far behind bliss buried in a sepulchre customized by the hand of rage the birth of a violent age reminds all that abstinence makes the heart grow floundering perish the memory scream in agony love is late, love is late a sorrow-raising surge lies in the cadence of the dirge