Sometimes I dream of your impending death
What words will you chose in a shortage of breath?
The last of your lies, or the truth you owe?
Or maybe just silence, so I'll never know
You loved me, missed me, even contrite
For all you that you said out of malice and spite
You hate me, loathe me, even detest
For seeing right through you and knowing you best
But nothing I say, nor things I have planned
Have changed your mind or the place where you stand
Your ruthlessly cold, your life is a lie
And the day you confess is the day that you die
