Death is sittin’ at my dinner table,
Sippin’ on a cold cup of tea.
Mining the stone from my heart,
With memories of those he’s taken from me.
Mr Sandman sits in my backseat.
Guiding me through Sunday traffic.
Infecting my eyes,
With dreams bordering on horrific.
Jesus sang to me in the garden,
Sympathetic tunes, and hateful rhetoric.
Drowning my ears,
Instilling an anger, disguised as melodic.
The Devil served my beer.
No questions asked, waited for a tip.
Letting me fester in my fear,
Floating down a river in a bottled ship.
Keeping me company in the dark,
Whispering when I tried to scream.
Universes apart, yet tangible to me.
These voices, are the enemy foreseen.
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