Whispers in the catacombs,

                   where you last deserted me,

caught inside my reveries,

                   gray and thick on musty sheets.

Rest is little, tattered threads,

                   tangled up inside my head,

as I toss and turn, I know...

                  from this crypt, I cannot go.

Warmth and light have left this place,

                the icy shadows shroud my face,

I want to scream, for life is fleeting...

                so, why is my poor heart still beating!