Death it did not take me, death it did not want me My time to come is never, but to kill again, maybe I will be free Your fatal wounds can not put me down or stop my destiny I will arise in an hour with the gift of suffering In my own blood, drowning in my own agony Death left me alone, to heal, to fulfill my prophecy I am left with nothing but this life In my mind a stranger, in my gut a knife And death it could not take me, even though I begged On my knees with blood in my eyes, I could not be saved And I have nothing but this unwanted devoir This inability to die, this deadened fervor All was stolen by my murderer And that of actual value was stolen so long before My wounds are now healed and clean I will kill another until I find what should have been ... My death, my peace, my long awaited demise My departure from this horrid place, the end of my cries
death, stolen, devoir, wound, fervor