As I climb upon her oaken throne/
To gaze upon these dead children of her/
Emerging from her womb are nothing/
But poisoned reflections of the past/

Her saddened eyes show no relief/
As the tranguility of the dying/
World around her slowly descents/
And the last tormented screams silence/

All that remains is the Oak and the october/
It's falling leaves like the dreams/
Of the old/
That were spoken by everyone/
But heard by none/

All that remains is a rough desert/
Somewhere in this abyss/
Where we once searched for life/
But forgot to care for our own/

The endless stream of life/
Where we held our feet/
But sank too quickly to/
Even notice us drifting apart/

And once we're gone/
What's left but hollow promises/
And pictures of tomorrows/
Our memories will never hold/