(Cadence Of) The Dirge

Exhorder

Onto the street proceed 
The hearse and limousine 
Laying in the casket, the 
Corpse of inner joy 
Questioning time 
All hope for loving died 

Greying haze of the 
Autumn skies 
Stone cold hearts retract 
Amongst the knives 
Within a dream that 
Commits itself to grief 
Resurrected by a black 
Wreath... 

Why? 
Where? 
How? 

Heaving sob-seizures 
Roused by the view 
Of true love embalmed in a 
Box 
Grovel, beg, plead for a 
Sign, but never mind 
'cause bliss is now a word 
Left far behind 

Bliss buried in a sepulchre 
Customized 
By the hand of rage 
The birth of a violent age 
Reminds all that 
Abstinence makes the 
Heart grow floundering 

Perish the memory 
Scream in agony 
Love is late, love is late 

A sorrow-raising surge 
Lies in the cadence of the 
Dirge