There's no rest for the weary,
all those times we were dreary;
agony suffers evermore.
We are swallowed by time,
wanting to die,
all from tormented prime,
and the tears we've shed evermore.
We are weak, bounded by fate;
surrounded by, no love but hate.
There are no dreams for the weary,
though the night may be eerie.
The sun falls to an endless abyss,
followed by, our hope and bliss.
With nightmare following by,
we cannot help but to cry.
As Poe's raven cries nevermore;
we become more like a withered rose,
growing out of an open door.
There's no end for the weary;
we see death now clearly.
We raise the gauntlets of raw,
to our sufferings and flaw;
followed by our agony and tide;
to those who's trying to hide.
There's no rest for the weary;
we've ponder all that is leery.
We have been swallowed by lies,
in this time of demise;
being left dead but alive.
In this abode for peace,
nevermore will it forever cease,
in the minds of all;
we continued to fall.
There's no hope for the weary;
our eyes so teary,
as we weep what we sow;
with our fears we bestow.
Tainted now is our soul;
we lie, buried in this hole.
With hearts full of dread,
we try to be one with the dead;
only to suffer more.
Now with uncaring eyes,
tormented and scorn;
we despise our demise,
breaking free evermore.
There's no time for the weary,
for those who are dreary;
only to be tormented by glee.
We're not broken, yet we cannot see,
our life beyond this narrow pass;
trapped behind the looking glass.
The mourners gathered for our delight,
to welcome our tormented night.
By the moon, the reaper weary;
as we lay to rest, this time of dreary.
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