mesmeric winds flowing in the hall of the dead
disturbing the flavor of the grave
the crypt where shattered dreams dwell
in the eve of a new era
covered up in the smoke of ignorance
a black silk wall that rises far up
into a desolate ski without gods
a residue of the great clash of nations
forsaken on an illusion,
a battlefield for ghosts and wraiths
forgotten in the wake of a tired moon
that shines in the middle of the day,
hiding after the red sun
that bleeds with tears of darkness
drowning the world along with it's horrible stench
and leaving behind
with strong routs buried deep in the grassy plains,
nature, ever green and young
pictured into a slow second
decrypted from the fractal flow
of a time entrapped
in a hiatus of orgiastic pleasure...