Of Things to Come
To what do my eyes see
When tey are closed?
A all to familar future woe
Of past and present fea
Where the raven flies nevermore
Where the pictures steal our age
Where the dead are all that live
Where man is lost to himself
Bones and skin does not a man make
But the sinful saint that dwells within
I see that saint standing there
For he is the source of this dream
Like a moth to the flame I walk to him
And stare into his taunting eyes
I ask him if this is my fate
But he does not reply
I wake in cold sweat
Like clockwork every time
The answers have not come to me
So I must wait for night to come again