testaments and the lies we tell ourselves
I used to think
that faith was what held love
and that even though hidden from me
it would grant me one day its shine
but the darkness of indifference
crept its etch upon my shadow
and such foolish ideals are slaughtered
under the rage of a sanguine moon
days so dreary and dark i languish
in a skin that now feels so old
with a face that conceals its image
in the mirrors plane fallen cold
how i yearn for just another day
one more grasp at a memory
doesn’t matter if a martyr cries
as long as he trusts his own belief
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