The Cloak

In my wardrobe there is no place
- nor of any other clothing trace -
for nothing, but a hooded cloak
to cover my body, to cover my face.

Got to wear it, have no choice
embraced by its so freezing voice
whispering to let it enter,
shall I succumb to this noise?

Tried to resist, success lacking
adapted myself to its liking.
I can feel it feed upon me
my happiness from me sucking.

Each drop to deepen inner strain,
to drive me more 'n' more insane.
Why, hell, why she gave me this
cloak of sorrow, cloak of pain?