Abased by my grief, the troubled mind I bear, drags me down the abyss of endless loneliness. Enlight the reek in which you dwell. You re the weak your soul has fell. Hear the prayer of a lost soul. Even though the greatest of my wishes is being stoic, God has made me one of many stooges. Trusting only thou who is alike myself. I merge with the darkness that embraces me for who I am. Emaciated by their faulter moves, they hide under the cloak of blasphemy. Desperately yearning for love, finding only misery Avount Now I loath the presence of God, whom I had such trust in. Only to be abandoned, my hardest of times. Pierce the mind see what is not. Try to sense the spirit rot.
avount, stooge, faulter, abased, stoic