onto the street proceednthe hearse and limousinenlaying in the casket, thencorpse of inner joynquestioning timenall hope for loving diednngreying haze of thenautumn skiesnstone cold hearts retractnamongst the knivesnwithin a dream thatncommits itself to griefnresurrected by a blacknwreath...nnwhy?nwhere?nhow?nnheaving sob-seizuresnroused by the viewnof true love embalmed in anboxngrovel, beg, plead for ansign, but never mindn'cause bliss is now a wordnleft far behindnnbliss buried in a sepulchrencustomizednby the hand of ragenthe birth of a violent agenreminds all thatnabstinence makes thenheart grow flounderingnnperish the memorynscream in agonynlove is late, love is latenna sorrow-raising surgenlies in the cadence of thendirge