Exanimis Dolor - What Sorrow It Is

In the hollow hours of night, the candle trembles against the silence. The air tastes of iron and mildew, the slow decay of forgotten rooms. I hear the pulse of my own ruin, measured in the dust of falling plaster. I am the damned, long before dying, an elegy sung by silence and despair. What sorrow it is to breathe, what sorrow it is to endure. Each sigh a nail, each heartbeat a death knell. To live is to languish in decadence, to know the call of the grave in advance. Each breath I take is borrowed, and each exhale departed is closer to the end. My lungs are tombs already, filling with the acrid taste of misery. The window frames a barren sky, no star, no moon, only the abyss. Time slips as a wound unstaunched, and the world forgets I was ever here. What sorrow it is to breathe, what sorrow it is to endure. Each sigh a nail, each heartbeat a death knell. To live is to languish in decadence, to know the call of the grave in advance. What sorrow it is to breathe, what sorrow it is to endure. Each sigh a nail, each heartbeat a death knell. To live is to languish in decadence, to know the call of the grave in advance.