Tis the night of midnight harrow,
Can you not feel the dreadful sorrow?
All along the streets to and from,
They think not of the wicked deeds,
They just simply sing and hum,
Never listening to the pleads.
Falling short,
Nothing left to strive,
And yet there is something here,
That one can see.
Memories left to sort,
You no longer feel alive,
And yet you feel no fear,
Maybe that is the key.
No one left to help you stand,
It is okay though,
For you understand,
Everyone has their own foe.
Tis the night of midnight harrow,
But there is always a morrow.
Can you not feel the dreadful sorrow?
All along the streets to and from,
They think not of the wicked deeds,
They just simply sing and hum,
Never listening to the pleads.
Falling short,
Nothing left to strive,
And yet there is something here,
That one can see.
Memories left to sort,
You no longer feel alive,
And yet you feel no fear,
Maybe that is the key.
No one left to help you stand,
It is okay though,
For you understand,
Everyone has their own foe.
Tis the night of midnight harrow,
But there is always a morrow.
