I Am One with the Dead Trees & Razorblade Winters

This tomb is much too cold
As all three-and-a-half hands point south
And the pages on the calendar
Curl up and die with the dead leaves
This mind has been fractured one too many times
Though, I use the insanity to my advantage
Scrawling words on makeshift parchment
While watching buildings rise from the leaping flames
Old bones that grew disfigured
Now comfortable beneath atrophic skin
But the all-familiar thirst for blood
Never wanes

Never will