The Last Hour of Suffering

Scars from your self-infliction
Tell morbid tales of your addiction.
Pain becomes your every breath.
Forsaken by life; obsessed with death.
Your mind becomes an open sepulcher,
And every thought a ravenous vulture.

Kiss this barren ground.
Salvation can still be found.
The blood it trickles down.

Your wounds are bleeding through.
An ocean of red envelops you.
The blade has cut too deep this time.
From this pit of death you cannot climb.
Hope becomes all but lost.
Your eyes they widen and then are glossed.

Kiss this barren ground.
Salvation can still be found.
The blood it trickles down.

Your vision fades to a sea of black.
Your heart still holds its love aback.
A voice rings out calling your name.
"All is not lost. I've taken your shame."
With your very last dying gasp
His nail-scarred hands your hand does clasp.

Upon this barren ground
Salvation has been found.

Author: Matthew James