Lurking Fear

Your cold so cold your skin is cold
as stone upon the graves tomb floor.
Your face so still and white and gaunt
as peaceful as the night before.
Awake awake I screech your name and
wretch and howl and thrash and mourn.
At you I rage and and at life itself and I
wish that you were never born.
The plunder of death and plague filled nights
I yearn to see nevermore.
And your cold so cold your skin is cold
as stone upon the graves tomb floor.