It's part of a song I wrote, the whole ballad being:
Blessed are the sick, though we are not.
Drowning in filth; hit with the realization that I am part of that filth the final blow. Madness approaches, insanity on the twisted horizon, a foul vulprence of lost souls. Desolate ways of all, depression all the rage. Doomsday Celebration nigh, submissiveness our salvation.
Bell tolls; organs in the mausoleum, darkest days upon us.
Feeling of pain. Down on the ground, kicked and stomped, life of misery, drudgery of life. Morbid curiosity keeps us going, going to nowhere. Sordid ideals seperate us, hindering progress. Swallowing the lie of a better day, spoonfed to us to quell the riots inside of us.
Blessed are the sick, though we are not, driving pain, deep inside, the little death consumes us all. The tolling bell signifies what we have lost, the funeral pyre for mankind, nothing left, all is gone.