As an imperfect form
That smells of mold when
Stopped hand of the clock will move
It only to show that I'm the fool
Light cast on the shadow less contour
Who has a hand that does not know its twin
My hearth is racing, deaf to it's next beat
Pumping blood to mist covered head
Can't unravel
All these hours
Cursed is a day from which you can't wake up
I rest myself in open flame
Day-dreaming of the first gate of hell
From the ashes you will compose my deeds
As an imperfect form
That smells of mold
Moved hand of the clock will surely stop
I breathed but at what cost
Light cast on the shadowless contour
Who has a hand that does not know its twin
My hearth is racing, deaf to it's next beat
Pumping blood to mist covered head
Can't unravel
All these hours
Cursed is a day from which you can't wake up