I think I must have died, 
for I have journeyed here to Hell;
I knock upon its Byzantine Gates
to be greeted by the swift blow of an axe.

It matters not, long or short, 
for my blood pours forth to ground,
as my tears so often did
when we lived in eachothers hearts.

When you lived in mine but I not in yours,
when you let me go
condemning me to this eternity;
here with the Fallen Ones I rot.

It should have been yours,
you sinner, you theif, you manipulator of minds,
yours this shameful fate,
but you cheated and sealed it to me.

So while you exist still,
maybe fallen, but never alone,
maybe mutilated and stripped,
but at least with freedom and worth,

I am left in the shadow,
surrounded by Satan's consorts,
and wishing that I could be invisible once again
as I so often appeared to you.