The Black Cat

A dreary life accented by the whispers The fingers along the mind, echoing intentions A falseness to everything building up into violence Unforeseen consequences feeding dark dementia And so I take the knife And carve out one if it’s eyes In the throes of evil, I can’t trust my surroundings The madness echoes, I cannot trust myself Horrible acts, blood on my hands, what have I done They’re calling through the floor, calling for my blood And still no rest for me, the paranoia deafens Infecting every aspect of me, the cat is long since dead My wife is suspicious, and so I come to her conclusion Buried under the house to hide such shameful acts And they come to ask questions Can they hear the howling? In the throes of evil, I can’t trust my surroundings The madness echoes, I cannot trust myself Horrible acts, blood on my hands, what have I done They’re calling through the floor, calling for my blood